


On the Bright Side of Being Hell Bent

by BabylonsFall



Category: Leverage
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Background Relationships, Body Dysmorphia, De-Aged Quinn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Referenced Human Experimentation, Team as Family, pre-Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 13:45:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16409582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall
Summary: Eliot doesn't expect to leave the brewpub, late one night, and find a kid on his doorstep. Eliot doesn't expect the kid to turn out to be one of his best friends, younger and hunted and so angry it hurts. And Eliot definitely doesn't expect for his home to become a battlefield while trying to figure out exactly who the kid is, in the here and now.He doesn't expect it, but he's got to live with it, one way, or another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [On the Bright Side of Being Hell Bent [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410158) by [BabylonsFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall), [IndigoNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight). 



> This is my first entry for the Leverage Dual Bang 2018! Written for the [lovely artwork](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leverage_bang_2018/works/16410158) and awesome prompt by [IndigoNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight), who has been amazingly patient and awesome to work with during this project.
> 
> Also, quick thanks to [Roshwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen) for listening to me complain and giving things a look over!
> 
> (title is from Get Up by Shinedown)

Feet beating on pavement. Rain coming down heavy and cold, slicing through thin clothes and thinner skin. Police sirens in the distance sounding loose and thin through the air. Stale grey masses of buildings, cut through with unfocused smears of light, sliding in and out of view as he cuts through the rain.

He doesn’t know where he is—can’t figure out if he knew where he was when he started or if this is just a blind dash to  _ anywhere  _  but  _ there _ .

If he wasn’t focusing on getting air into his lungs, no matter how cold or stiff, maybe he’d laugh at how melodramatic it all was, running through the rain at night, from an unknown monster to an unknowable destination.

But there are spots clouding the edges of his eyesight, and all he can think about is  _ getting away _ .

If he ends up passed out in the gutter, at least it’ll be farther away than where he started.

And maybe he should stop thinking entirely—his foot catches on...on something, hell if he knows, but he stumbles, scrambling to keep his feet even as the heels of his palms scrape rough concrete. He doesn’t go down, not completely, but he has to slow down. Breathe. Take in the trembling in his limbs, the frail scrape in his lungs.

A look around shows him nothing new.

Dark storefronts. Tall walls of brick pock marked with windows, all but a handful little more than black pits in the stonework.

None of it looks familiar—and yet. And  _ yet _ , something is pinging at the back of his mind.

A left at the corner, a right two blocks up. Limbs once light and trembling are now heavy and cold, the rain and the rush and the fear taking its toll.

The storefront he ends up standing in front of isn’t anything special. Heavy brick. Thin, dark windows. Glass doors that reflect little more than the street behind him. He can see a light though, in the back, too weak to stretch into the main room.

He means to bang on the door, heavy fists and intent. Of course he can’t quite manage—ends up slumped on the door, his legs finally refusing to carry him further.

Everything kind of gets fuzzy there for a moment. He’s not sure how long he stands there, slumped against the door. Isn’t sure if he managed to get someone’s attention or if they accidentally spotted him along the way to somewhere else. Either way, the surface he’s leaning against disappears and he’s got about two seconds to recognize the flip-flop in his gut as the sensation of free fall before he’s being supported again by something a hell of a lot more warm and unstable than the door.

He can hear someone grumbling, somewhere to his right, but all he can really focus on is that fact that rain is no longer falling on his face, and the sound of beating raindrops is muted in the next moment, plunging the panic in his mind into sluggish silence.

Well, he’s out of the cold, whoever it is seems intent on helping him, at least for the moment, even to the point of basically carrying him.

Perfect time to pass out.

* * *

There’s a moment, in the haze, where he thinks he might be awake. The sensation of moving, heavy-limbed and consciousness refusing to focus. More cursing—he’s pretty sure, when he looks back—as he’s jostled about. A moment, and nothing more.

* * *

It’s not that he ‘wakes up’ so much as he’s...awake, between one breath and the next. There’s no fogginess, no moment of staring at the back of his eyelids. One second, there’s nothing he can remember and the next he’s staring up at a popcorn ceiling—off white and burnt in color, in a way that takes him a moment to place as lamp-light casting across it.

It takes a few moments, from there, while his brain is trying to trace shapes in the ceiling, and gray shades are clouding the edge of his vision, for the rest of the room to slide into focus. He’s lying on a couch, if the stiff cushions against his right side are anything to go by. He’s got a blanket at least halfway across his legs—an old thing, fuzzy and dull, but almost stiflingly warm.

Moving to try and take anything in beyond his immediate view of the ceiling or the wall at his feet proves a bad idea.

His entire body is throbbing with a deep, bone-scratched ache that sets his teeth on edge against a hiss. Or a whimper. Something’s caught in his throat either way, which hurts too, because that’s just his luck.

Deep breathing, as he forces himself back against the cushions, eyes clenched shut to drown out...something—the light. The world. Who knows—hurts like hell, stretching his aching chest in a sad echo of the hellbent tear he’d been on earlier. But it also helps, after a couple tries. Gives him something to focus on instead of the throb in his legs, in his hips. In his  _ hands _ , what the hell.

It takes another couple of minutes of just. Breathing. In. Out.

In.

Out.

Before he’s able to try to take in his surroundings again.

He’s in a living room. That much at least is easy. Couch. Table—oddly far from the couch, but the last thing he’s concerned with right now is interior decoration choices. TV mounted on the wall by a window.

As if by looking at it, he somehow conjured it into existence, as soon as he sees the window, he can hear the rain, beating against the glass. Sees the grey tinge casting weak light across the room, immediately beat out by the burnt golden glow of the lamp, which is itself sitting in the far corner.

It’s a really...plain room. All things considered. The walls are bare, both of pictures and nicks and holes. Decent signs at least, even if it is all a little bleak.

Once the sound of the rain suffuses through the room, at least for him, he hears something else. Just a faint  _ thump-thump-thump _ and a scrape. Of course it’s behind him—over the arm of the couch he’d had his head on.

Okay. Breathing again.

In.

Out.

In.

Sit up.

O-out.

Well, he’s upright. The gray shades are back at the edges of his vision, and he’s got a headache now to match the ache in the rest of his body, which is just  _ awesome _ . But he’s up. He’ll take it.

Looking to his right shows a plain kitchen to match the equally plain living room. Clean, cheap white counters (which fucking hurt to look at apparently, with how bright the light is in that corner). Cheap wood cabinets.

Not to mention the unknown man standing at the counter...chopping vegetables.

Because why not.

He’s almost entirely certain he hadn’t made a sound in this entire endeavor—except what might have been a whimper when he sat up. Maybe. Regardless, as soon as he actually looks at the man, he glances over his shoulder.

There’s a sense of vertigo as his stomach does a 180—or maybe it’s his heart. Something vital turns in a way it’s not supposed to anyway, and he has to curl over before it tries to climb up his throat.

Something is scratching at the edge of his mind—something uncomfortable and cold and tangled, but familiar. Almost as familiar as the building he’d collapsed in front of—but he can’t focus on it with any clarity, too busy wrapping his arms tight around his stomach in an effort to quell the sudden nausea currently trying to outpace the overall ache of his body.

When the wave’s past—which takes who knows how long, things got a little fuzzy in there—he notices two things. One, there’s a glass of water on the floor in front of him. And two, the methodical sound of chopping has stopped.

The glass is ignored in favor of trying to find the man again—there’s a quiet, small part of him, that’s starting to itch at the unfamiliar environment, hackles standing on end with an unknown element so close by. He’s not too hard to find, given that he’s sitting on the coffee table, a good five feet away, hands loosely clasped in front of him, arms resting on his knees.

There’s nothing immediately special about him, sitting like this. There’s bulk there, but he can’t guess a height. Maybe mid-thirties. Brown hair’s pulled up into a loose tail. There’s...nothing really there to hold onto. A thin grey tank top. Worn out jeans. Empty hands and bare feet.

Sharp eyes are watching him though—picking him apart just as much as he’s picking the other apart. And he’s got a distinct feeling he’s not quite as adept at it.

That quiet part of him, tucked away in his mind, just about goes silent. Don’t move. Barely breathe.

"...You’re gonna break something, sitting like that, kid.” Is the gruff reprimand he gets a couple long, silent moments later, just as the man stands and heads back to the kitchen. The scratching at the edge of his mind is back, even if it’s lacking the sense of vertigo it brought last time.

_ Something _ clicks into place as he watches after him. It’s nothing tangible, nothing he can grab hold of, turn over and interrogate. But he feels his shoulders relax minutely, feels his breathing start back up. There’s a sense of relief, not unlike what had made him knock on that door before he’d collapsed.

Speaking of which…

“...Where the hell am I?” And  _ wow _ his voice  _ hurts.  _ And, if its sounds even half as scratched and torn as he thinks it does, then talking might just. Be off the table for awhile.

That gets him a snort. “Not the restaurant you collapsed in front of, clearly. Thanks for the crime scene you left on the window by the way. Normally, when people hunt us down, they’re not so dramatic about it.”

And all of this is going way over his head. He can’t quite tell what his face is doing, but he’s pretty sure it’s some form of  _ wtf _ if the way the man rolls his eyes is anything to go by. “Took you to an apartment of mine, close by. It’s safe.” And there’s absolutely nothing there for him to trust—unknown location, unknown man, unknown amount of time past, unknown...well, there’s a lot there he doesn’t know and doesn’t really want to dwell on—but, he can’t really help it. He relaxes back into the couch at the assurance. 

“...Think you can talk a little bit? Or are you about to pass out again?”

He can’t help but puff up a little bit at the question, huffing and grabbing the glass of water—which, upon feeling the cool glass on tender skin, he can’t help but wince, just a bit. He can talk. His throat’s just a little scratchy is all.

“You’re as stubborn as he is aren’t you?” And who the hell is ‘he’? “Either way. You were looking for the brewpub right? You were looking for us?”

He nods, even if he doesn’t. Actually know. He knows he was running towards something. There’d been a destination in mind, even if that destination hadn’t had a...a memory to go along with it. He tries to pull it up, now, without the adrenaline pumping his heart too fast, without the beating of rain in his eyes, and he gets...nothing. No shapes, no colors, just a sense of  _ here _ .

He must not look that confident, because the man kind of just side-eyes him a bit. The silence stretches on until he can’t take it anymore, shrugs instead, eyes cast down to the glass in his hands. So what if he didn’t know where he was going. He got there, didn’t he?

“Do you even know who I am?” There’s a curl of something (and he’s getting really,  _ really  _ tired of not knowing what  _ anything  _ is) in the man’s voice that pulls his eyes up again. His face hasn’t changed much—mouth still set in a neutral slant, sharp eyes still pinned on him—but there’s a furrow between his eyebrows that wasn’t there before. He gets the idea that it’s...not good. But he can’t put his finger on why.

He can’t lie, when faced with that tangle. So he shakes his head. Winces when that furrow deepens.

The man’s quiet for a long moment, then.

Doesn’t say anything before he’s turning away, and for some reason, he feels his stomach drop, afraid he’s about to leave ( _ why? _ ), before he realizes he’s just turning to the stovetop. A pot he hadn’t noticed before is boiling, and the man takes a long couple of minutes to fiddle around with what he’d chopped earlier and what’s already in the pot.

He can’t help but fidget, in that silence. Feels like he’s done something  _ wrong _ , and it’s eating at his insides. Which is even  _ more  _ wrong, since when the hell has he cared when he did something ‘wrong’?

As far as he’s concerned, he’s done everything wrong since he started walking and talking, and feeling bad or bent out of shape about it wasn’t something to waste his time on. If the school system, what little he’d been part of anyway, couldn’t knock that out of him—hell, if his old man couldn’t—then what the hell claim did this stranger have?

“...What’s your name kid?” The question is muffled—the man hasn’t turned away from the stove yet—and...distant. Like it was part of a thought, only half voiced.

He almost doesn’t want to answer. Wants to pretend he hadn’t heard. Has a pretty good idea that he’d get away with it too.

But...well. He was there for a reason. (Maybe. Hopefully.)

“My name’s Quinn.”

* * *

 

_Eliot_

 

“Just...just Quinn.”

Eliot’s pretty sure the laminate on the edge of the counter doesn’t crack under his hand.

“...Just like your old man, huh?” It’s a little too forced, the light-hearted slant he tries to put in the question. But he has to try, because the other option is likely to send the kid running—that hunted look has yet to leave his eyes, and, given how Eliot found him, he doubted it would for awhile.

The kid kind of just looks at him though, eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side. “What’re you talking about?” Is what he gets.

...which just added to the weirdness that has been this whole day. And it’s not even noon.

When he’d found the kid, leaning against the brewpub door, a smear of what later turned out to be blood from cut hands on the glass beside him, the last thing he’d expected was to see...well. Quinn.

A little smaller, a little softer in the face, a little frailer in the shoulders (and just frailer...overall, in a way that set Eliot’s gut on edge and cut against his teeth), and his hair too short to be the mop of familiar waves but trying valiantly anyway despite the rain. But the likeness was there—too much so to ignore.

And when he’d opened his eyes to look around the apartment, it had just cinched it. Those eyes were Quinn’s, through and through; sharp brown, too quick and too dark, and settled too deep in a face so young.

The kid was clearly his, was the point.

And this was the first Eliot was hearing about it which just...well. Honestly, it kind of hurt. Him and Quinn were close, had been ever since he’d helped the crew out with Dubenich and Quinn decided to stick a little closer a little more often. And there’d been no mention of a kid, no whisper of a family, besides the one castaway mention of his old man, dead and gone in the ground some 16 years.

But it was a familiar hurt, after the initial wave.

This job came with secrets.

There were men he knew going on twenty years now he wouldn’t consider telling about Parker and Hardison. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t take a bullet for most of them. Didn’t mean he didn’t trust them with the blood on his hands and the weight in his heart.

Different kinds of trust for different kinds of secrets—it’s how they lived. He wouldn’t begrudge Quinn that.

“Don’t worry about it.” He says, after a couple long moments. The kid’s face scrunches up slightly, angry and wounded and Eliot has not had enough sleep to deal with a teenager that far on edge, so he turns back to the stove top, turning off the burners and setting about hunting down some bowls and silverware. The apartment isn’t one he uses often—in fact, he’s only used it twice since he bought it, if memory serves—but everything should still be where he left it.

Sure enough, he manages to find some decently clean bowls in the cabinet to his right.

He can  _ feel _ the kid’s eyes boring into his head—glaring or just watching, he can’t quite tell, though he’s willing to bet on the former.

Turning back around, food in hand, he headed out into the living room to offer one over. And yep, he was being glared at. Doesn’t stop him from taking the bowl though, so there’s that.

Eliot shuffles back to sit on the coffee table—his instinct since dragging the kid here has been to give him space, and it seems to be paying off, in that the kid hasn’t completely spiraled. So he was going to keep with it.

(The other instincts had included checking the kid over for any obvious injuries worse than the bruises and scrapes that littered what was visible of his pale skin and then getting food in him as quickly as possible. He’d been way too light for someone his size when Eliot had hefted him up.)

He didn’t take it too personally when the kid didn’t start eating until Eliot did. It was a good instinct, even if it made his stomach curl at the fact that he had a reaction like that at that age.

...Which Eliot was still trying to pin down actually. The kid didn’t have any baby fat left to him, but that could very well be a product of what Eliot was about sixty percent certain was malnutrition at this point rather than age. Overall, he looked anywhere from a too-tall fifteen years to a too-skinny eighteen.

“...When you’re up for it,  _ if  _ you’re up for it, we’ll head back down to the restaurant. Talk with Parker and Hardison and try and figure out what you’re doing here, alright?” The kid nods, but doesn’t look up from his bowl. “...after that, we’ll figure out where you can stay.” Eliot’s already got a couple ideas—all of which start with Hardison tracking down Quinn, their Quinn, as quickly as possible.

He’s been trying to avoid it, but the whole situation is screaming in the back of his head, setting his hackles up and making him want to bolt out the door right then to find both his friend, and whoever beat his friend’s kid to a pulp. But that hadn’t been needed as much as making sure said kid was breathing and would continue to do so, so he’d set the urge aside. Didn’t mean it wasn’t scraping at his senses the entire time though.

He’s pretty sure that’s the end of the conversation when the kid doesn’t really...react, after that, so he turns back to his own food, content to settle in for a bit.

“...here isn’t one of the options, right?” It’s quiet, half muttered and definitely more directed at his bowl than at Eliot. But Eliot can’t help but snort anyway.

“What’s wrong with here?” There’s a hell of a lot wrong with ‘here’. But the somber attitude of the evening’s getting to him, and Eliot kind of wants to see what the kid’ll call him out on.

He’s rewarded with an incredulous look, followed by a pointed look around the place. “...You don’t actually  _ live _ here, do you?” And it’s so different from what little the kid’s said so far, so judgemental and annoyed, that Eliot has to laugh.

“No, here’s not an option. It’s just a safe house, don’t worry.” And that pointed look turns on him. “Promise. It was just closest to the restaurant, that’s all.” And easier to secure than the restaurant. But that could be kept to himself.

He’s still pretty sure the kid didn’t quite believe him, but he seemed content to let it go for now.

(And he’d probably have to start calling him Quinn at some point. But it was just...weird. He’d figure it out.)

* * *

There’s not much more talking after that. The kid only eats about half the bowl before Eliot catches him just fiddling with the spoon. Rather than asking about it—he’d seen the flinch when the kid noticed him looking—he just took the bowl back and headed back to the kitchen to pack up leftovers he could take to the brewpub later.

He’d told the kid to get some more rest, they’d go talk with Hardison and Parker that night. He’d barely had the words out before the kid had apparently taken them to heart. When he’d turned around again, the kid was passed out, the blanket tugged up to his shoulders.

When he was sure the kid was well and truly out, only then did he pull out his phone, stepping out into the hall of the building to avoid disturbing him.

His phone screen was lit up with...fifteen missed calls and a slew of text messages that looked like they ranged from  _ Eliot. Eliot. Eliot. _ to  _ You’re apologizing to Amy for the crime scene on the door  _ and  _ what the hell answer your damn phone. _

Which, to be fair, he’d sent Hardison a message with only the briefest sketch of what was going on and then promptly muted his phone. He’s just glad Hardison took his  _ everything’s fine for now  _ to heart and hadn’t overrided the mute like Eliot knew he could do.

Steeling himself for the rant he’s likely to have to endure, he calls. Hardison answers before the first ring is even done.

“What the hell E.” Eliot can  _ hear  _ the frustration. He winces slightly, supremely glad Hardison can’t see him.

“...Everything’s fine over here, how’re you?”

“Don’t you ‘how’re you’ me! A text at 3am saying ‘found a kid at the door, taking him somewhere safe, update you later, everything’s fine for now’ is not helpful, informative, or even vaguely okay!”

“I might’ve...panicked. A little.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“...Okay, I might’ve tunnel-visioned. Better?”

“...A little.”

Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s going on then?” And they’re good. They’re always good, really, but a few ruffles here and there kept them on their toes.

“Parker there too?” He hears a clatter over the line, one he recognizes as Hardison setting the phone down. Speaker phone then.

“Hey Eliot. Hardison looks happy again. What’s up?”

“...Basically what my text said. Except, uh. Well. Pretty sure the kid’s Quinn’s. And he’s in rough shape,” to put it lightly anyway, “but in no immediate danger. He’s...I think he was trying to get to us, but didn't know it? Or something. Maybe he just had the address or something, I don't know. A couple things he said were weird. He’s sleeping now, and we’ll be in the brewpub tonight if he wakes up in time. In the meantime, Hardison, can you track down Quinn? I haven’t heard from him in too long and with all of this…”

“I hear ya. I’ll see what I can find. And E, be careful?”

“Yeah Eliot, if someone roughed him up, they could be hanging around. Keep in touch.” A question and a more direct admonishment. If Eliot didn’t know better, he’d say they planned their (rather effective) tactics out. Just his luck, they were just like that.

“Yeah, yeah,” he tries for his pretty standard annoyance, can’t quite help the fond curl to his tone, and just hopes they don’t hear it. 

He can’t hear anything, but he can practically  _ feel  _ both of them rolling their eyes at him. He hangs up on principle before they can call him out on anything.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time he wakes up, he can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief. His body still  _ hurts  _ of course. Still aches and tugs, and he’s pretty sure he passed out from sheer exhaustion, because the way he’s laying certainly isn’t comfortable.

But he’s still on the too-stiff couch. The burn in his calves and his hips, the scraped up tenderness in his hands, means that that run through the rain really did happen. That damn blanket is now pulled up to his chin, scratchy as hell but real, and warm.

He got out.

He still has to figure out where the hell he is, and  _ why _ , but the important part’s done. He got out. The rest is just figuring out the details.

“I’ve got some clothes that should fit you, if you want to take a shower before we go.” He doesn’t quite flinch, but it’s a damn close thing. Peeking one eye open, he finds Eliot—he’d managed to get a name just before he’d passed out again, even if the entire conversation had been as awkward as when he’d introduced himself—perched on the coffee table again. He’s not facing him though, instead turned towards the door, a beat up old book in his hand and his phone on his thigh. He’s not even looking at him.

He can’t decide if it’s creepy or not that the man had clearly been, if not actively watching him sleep, at least keeping an eye on him. Of course, there’s a small part of him that’s telling him to just be grateful and to get the hell up ‘cause the idea of an actual shower sounds amazing right now. He decides to go with that instead of worrying about it.

Moving is still a bit of an issue—that bone-scraped weariness in his legs hasn’t gone anywhere and standing up is itself a fight against vertigo—but he does manage to be somewhat steady on his feet, once he gets there. He sees Eliot watching him out of the corner of his eyes, a tense set to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. Waiting to see if he was going to fall probably.

But he makes no actual move for him, for which Quinn is kind of pathetically grateful for. He trusts Eliot more than is probably wise at this point, can’t really deny that he’s felt safer here than he has anywhere in a long time (not a whole lot of competition there, but the point stands). But he doesn’t know him, and as much as his mind is screaming and crying about  _ familiar  _ and  _ safe _ , his instincts are screaming anything but.

“Down the hall, to the left. Clothes’re on the counter. Shout if you need help.” And that’s that.

Locking the door behind him feels...safe. Not like the sheer relief he’d felt when he’d woken up here, when he’d run into someone he was apparently okay to trust. But physically, breathe-in, breathe-out  _ safe _ . Something he can control and figure out without the haze of  _ maybe  _ and  _ I guess  _ clouding the edges.

He spends...way too long in the shower. He can acknowledge that.

The heat was doing amazing things for his tired, aching bones and frankly, if the hot water hadn’t started to run out, he probably would’ve just sat on the floor and stayed there. Claimed it as his new home or something.

(He can also acknowledge that he hasn’t had an actual, decent shower that wasn’t fucking freezing or while he was half out of it in...a long time—fuck, what day was it anyway? Whatever, he’d figure it out later—so he didn’t let himself feel too bad about it. Eliot hadn’t come to pound on the door or anything so he was probably in the clear anyway.)

He can feel the pull of overworked nerves and joints as he gets out, but there’s no immediate pain accompanying the movement. Figures this is probably his best chance to get dressed without ending up on the floor. He tries to do just that, honestly, manages to get the jeans on at least.

His eyes don’t catch on the mirror so much as...he hadn’t been looking, then he was. And now he couldn’t look away.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting honestly—there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be.

There’s a hunch to his shoulders that wasn’t there two years ago, after he grew five inches and his classmates didn’t. His hair’s still a mess of half-hearted curls that he can never decide if he wants to completely shave off or not. He looks a little thinner than he’s comfortable with, a little stretched out and worn along the edges, and his skin’s a shade paler than he’s used to. But all of that is...is nothing.

Something is  _ missing _ .

His hand drifts to his side, just under his ribs. A flash at the back of his mind tells him to expect raised skin where all there is is smooth. Another attempt at his hip, this time expecting a...a starburst, for some goddamn reason. And again, there’s nothing.

He opens his eyes—when the hell had they even closed—and confirms, there’s nothing in either spot but clean, unbroken skin.

_ Something  _ is missing.

He tries to think back, over the last couple of weeks.

Bright lights. Faceless men. Blank walls and endless halls—a maze of hazy recollection, at best.

Tries to go back further.

He gets the idea that he’d been leaving. Backpack over his shoulder, lost somewhere along the way now, waiting for the bus that would take him to Oklahoma City, where he could catch another one anywhere but back home.

There’s no...no  _ gap  _ per se, between getting on the bus, and waking up somewhere too bright that smelled like bleach and antiseptic, but there is a...a feeling. Right where that memory ends and the next one starts. Feels like he could grasp either end, stretch them across the disconnect. Make them whole.

But he can’t.

Whatever he’s missing, whatever he’s  _ lost _ , is so, so much more than he can cover up and hide away. So much more than he can grab and hold onto, shove into the recesses of his mind and try to move on.

He has lost something profound, and he doesn’t know what the fuck it is.

He hears something soft, scratched and broken, and it takes him a long moment to realize the sound is coming from him, just before it turns into a hitched sob, caught in the back of his throat. The wall he ends up sliding down is damp and uncomfortably cool at this point, but he doesn’t really care—sliding down it means he’s no longer looking in the mirror. No longer looking at-at the  _ thing  _ that’s not  _ right _ . 

Quinn doesn’t know how long he sits there, hunched in on himself, before he hears a gentle knock on the door. His breathing hitches harder than it has—tears burning down his cheeks, breath catching in his throat every other breath, the last thing he wants is someone seeing him like this right now.

“W-what?” God, his voice cracking, exactly what he needs right now—even if the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh, almost chokes out a sob for a breath.

“...You wanna unlock the door, kid?” Is the muffled reply. It’s calm, quiet, barely audible through the door. It’s a request, not a demand.

‘No’ is on his tongue before the question’s even done, but it’s stuck to the roof of his mouth, tacky and lost. Instead of answering, he shifts enough to reach the door and flicks the lock before curling back in on himself. He doesn’t even know why he opened the door, except that if the thing in the room with him isn’t  _ right _ , maybe having someone around, someone who looks  _ real _ will help.

Eliot doesn’t barge in immediately, instead opening the door after apparently waiting for a verbal response— _ sucks for him, ‘cause he didn’t really want to talk right now _ . When he figures out one apparently isn’t coming, only then does he open the door, slipping in and closing it again behind him. Quinn can’t help but relax a bit at the fact that the door’s both closed and unlocked; having his freakout in a small space feels a lot more bearable than spreading it out and out and out right now.

He can’t quite look up at Eliot, and Eliot doesn’t try to make him. Instead, he looks around the bathroom, maybe trying to figure out what the hell set Quinn off. When he finds nothing (Quinn assumes), he sits down across from him, leaning back against the cabinets.

Quinn doesn’t really care what he does at that point, feels a fresh wave of tears overflowing even as his throat burns.

There’s the sound of Eliot shifting, and then a solid weight, pressing against his leg.

Literally all Eliot’s done is closed the space between them by stretching out his leg. It’s not as stifling as an arm across his shoulders would’ve been, not so familiar as Eliot moving into his space would’ve been. But it’s grounding. Comforting. An anchor point Quinn can focus on while he works through the last wave of sorrow and bitterness that’s crawling up his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

_Quinn_

 

They’re both quiet a long while, even after Quinn’s managed to calm down.

He feels...raw. Scraped out and hollow, the ache in his body not even registering, not really, when faced with the pit in his stomach. He knows he must look a mess, eyes probably red-rimmed, cheeks still flushed and angry. He’s fucking pale and looks like a trainwreck when he cries, he knows.

“I’m gonna give Parker and Hardison a call. Tell ‘em we’ll meet ‘em tomorrow. You wanna move to a nicer place than this for the time being?” Eliot asks, voice so loud in the quiet of the bathroom that Quinn can’t help but wince.

But, it’s a good plan. He doesn’t think he can really handle...people, right now. Strangers.

(Eliot was still virtually a stranger...no, no virtually about it. All Quinn knew about him was his name and a gut feeling that told him Eliot was safe. But given how little he had to work with everything else right now, he was going to hold onto that.)

So he nods. And Eliot tosses the shirt from the counter into his lap and stands, moving to head out and presumably call...whoever he said he was going to.

It takes him a good ten minutes to finish getting dressed, most of that time just spent trying to figure out how to move again, then getting the energy to do so. But when he manages it, he shuffles back out to the living room just in time to see Eliot scowling at his phone.

“...It insult your mother or something?”

Eliot blinks and snaps his head around, apparently not having heard Quinn come in. Quinn can practically see the moment what he said actually processes—he goes from tense and holding the phone too tight to huffing and shaking his head, his grip relaxing.

“No just. We can’t find…” He frowns then, trailing off and eyeing Quinn over, eyes too sharp and hard. “...Do you know where your dad is?” It sounds incredulous, but Quinn can’t tell over what.

It’s a weird ass question though. “...just outside Cheyenne, Oklahoma?” Bastard never wanted to move, and Quinn was only there a couple...weeks? months? ago.

Eliot frowns at him, and Quinn can’t help but fidget slightly under that look—there’s that same furrow there as when Quinn told him he didn’t know who he was. It makes him feel like he’s said something  _ wrong _ , even if he doesn’t know what.

“...Right.” Is all Eliot says though as he turns back to his phone, shooting off a text message who knows where. The next thing Quinn knows, a jacket’s being tossed at his face and Eliot’s grabbing a set of keys.

Okay, just. Glossing over that weird incident.

The rain’s stopped by now, as they step outside, but there’s still a weight to the air, a dampness to the wind, and a chill to the falling dusk that makes him pull the jacket closer around him. Eliot stays quiet the entire walk, but he slows down without comment when Quinn flags as his muscles remind him that, oh, right,  _ running like a bat out of hell is a bad idea, why’d we do that? _

Overall, it’s not a long walk—maybe a mile, if that—before they’re in front of a considerably nicer building than the last one.

“How many places do you have anyway?”

“In the city or total?”

“...Too many, got it.”

Eliot snorts, or maybe it’s a laugh, Quinn can’t tell, and shoos him inside.

They end up on the third floor, last door on the left.

Quinn’s expecting something...well. No, he’s not expecting anything. The last place had so little personality to it he had no idea what to expect.

It’s not a huge place, but it’s...nice. Open living room with one too many couches, windows facing an empty stretch of sky and road, hallway off to the right. The only thing that really stands out is the kitchen—everything looks  _ new  _ and  _ expensive  _ and out of place against the pretty standard apartment. Quinn’s getting nervous just  _ thinking  _ about how much just what he can see must’ve cost.

“There’s a spare bedroom, down the hall to the right. Bathroom’s the door after it. Food in the fridge, take whatever you want.” There’s a hand on his shoulder that squeezes slightly before it’s gone and Eliot heads down the hallway. Quinn kind of just blinks after him until he hears a door shut, the sound of a shower starting up not two minutes later.

Well then.

Sure, bring the strange kid home. Patch him up, feed him. Don’t question what he’s doing there besides the very, very basics. Don’t question it when he can’t even answer those. Then  _ actually  _ take him home after a class-A freakout with no explanation.

This was just getting fucking weird, and Quinn couldn’t quite follow Eliot’s train of thought in any of this. At all.

(Not that he was going to question it too hard. It resulted in him being  _ here  _ after all, instead of  _ there _ .)

He didn’t feel comfortable snooping around too much (which he was pretty sure was just the exhaustion talking, because honestly), but the couches looked comfortable enough to wait things out.

He realized his mistake almost as soon as he sat down. He was fucking  _ tired _ . He’d crashed just recently sure, but the emotional rush and subsequent drop of...of the  _ thing _ and just the last couple of days...he just wanted to sleep.

Couch was as good a place as any.

* * *

_Eliot_

 

“I told you, we’d come by the brewpub when he felt up to it.” Eliot says, blinking blearily at the two people standing at his door. He’s more impressed they actually knocked, if he’s being honest. It was heavily tempered by the fact that it was six-thirty in the morning and he’d only just managed to get to sleep after double checking that the place was secure, keeping an eye on the streets below, and checking in with the handful of contacts he knew Hardison wouldn’t have access too.

And the fact that, from the slightly manic shine to Hardison’s eyes and the way Parker was almost too still, they clearly hadn’t slept  _ at all _ .

They’d talked about this, dammit.

“And we decided that this was better discussed as soon as possible is all. And the sooner we tell you, the sooner we can crash and then actually start figuring things out.” And that was...a fair point. Even if he still didn’t approve of it. “Yeah, yeah, eyebrows of disapproval, we get it.” Hardison waves him off and Eliot kind of just sighs and steps aside.

“Keep your voices down, he’s still sleepi-Parker!” He hisses. He hadn’t even seen Parker move. One second she was standing next to Hardison, the next, she was hovering over the back of the couch, looking down at Quinn.

“...So, clones aren’t a thing right?”

“Clones are not a thing, mama. Yet.” Hardison chimes in, ever helpful. Eliot scrubbed a hand down his face.

“I mean it, don’t wake him up Parker.” Her hands go up as she purposefully takes an exaggerated step back. She manages to keep a serious face for about a breath before its breaking into a grin. Eliot rolls his eyes so he doesn’t do something stupid like grin back. “Alright, alright, what’d you two find?”

Parker’s face drops, and when he looks back at Hardison, he’s wearing a similarly grim expression.

“We can’t find Quinn. At all. For at least the last five months. The last confirmed location I have for him is Moscow, back in May. That was when he’d left a message for you, remember? Saying he’d be around when that job was done.” Eliot remembered that message very clearly, has to physically stop himself from growling. He hadn’t thought anything of it, the radio silence.

Jobs could last weeks, months. And Quinn was flighty as hell sometimes, picking up jobs one after the other without much warning. They’d given him an emergency number, and an emergency phone for it too, told him to call if he was in trouble. No call had ever come in.

Before Eliot can even ask, Hardison’s holding up his hand. “I already tracked his phone. It’s live until about a week after the last confirmed sighting, and then it goes dark. Someone either took a hammer to it, or dropped it in the ocean.” Neither of which boded well and  _ goddamn it _ .

“And, uh. About Cheyenne? Quinn’s not there. There’s no sign of him entering or leaving, and there’s only a handful of roads in man. The only thing I  _ did  _ find there is an old abandoned lot still in Quinn’s name. Deed passed to him sixteen years ago when his dad died. Satellite imagery shows absolutely nothing moving there for the last couple of weeks.”

They’re all quiet for a long moment then—Eliot can  _ see  _ the wheels in Parker’s mind spinning. Can  _ feel  _ Hardison’s nervous energy, eyes bouncing between him and the laptop currently on the table.

“...Alright.” Breathe. “Alright. Go home. Get some rest.” He holds up a hand as both of them open their mouths to protest. “You’re both burned out.” Which means they’ve both probably been up since he sent that first text message, dammit, “I’ll talk with the kid when he wakes up. Try to get an actual...an actual story out of him.”

Parker looks ready to argue for a moment longer, before her shoulders relax and she just nods carefully. Hardison looks even less pleased, but he just shakes his head and claps a hand on Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot doesn’t want to meet his eyes, but he knows right now that if he doesn’t, Hardison won’t leave.

“We’ll find him, E. Promise.” And all Eliot can do is nod, because if Hardison promises—if either of them promise—all he can do is trust them. Quinn’s got the best possible people tracking him right now, and the least Eliot can do is not freak the fuck out for now.

“I know. Now get out of here. It’s six-thirty in the goddamn morning and I was actually sleeping and you  _ need  _ to be sleeping. Go on!” Both of them roll their eyes at him and he just pulls a face to get their serious looks to melt away into those goofy grins he can’t help but try for, every time.

Closing the door behind them is harder than he’d like, and he can’t figure out what the main cause is. Decides not to deal with it at all and instead goes to...fuck. Goes to-to make coffee. He can do that.

The kid’s still dead to the world on the couch, looks like he probably will be for a little while yet.

Should give him enough time to track down a couple other contacts, call in a few favors. Hardison and Parker are the best, of that he has absolutely no doubt. But an extra set of eyes never hurt.

And he needed something to do that wasn’t...wasn’t just sitting on his ass.

* * *

The kid stays knocked out for another couple of hours. Long enough that Eliot’s actually starting to worry, because he doesn’t move so much as a muscle the entire time.

But he sees when the kid wakes up, sees the minute shift and the tense line of his back as he, presumably, tries to figure out where he is.

“...You know, there’s a bed, just down the hall. You didn’t need to crash on the couch.” And maybe it’s a touch mean, how amusing he finds Quinn startling, and then cracking open one eye to blearily glare at him.

“Nn. Couch was right there.” Eliot rolls his eyes but can’t really argue with that.

“Uh-huh. You want breakfast or anything?” Quinn perks up a little too quickly at that before he manages to temper it back down to a reserved interest and a nod. “...Right. Anything in particular you won’t eat?” He asks, already moving back to the kitchen.

“Not...really?”

“Sound real sure there.” Eliot tosses back, but doesn’t really question him on it, instead grabbing what he can for a quick breakfast.

He hears Quinn move to one of the stools at the bar separating the living room and kitchen, feet shuffling heavily and a stifled yawn the only other noise in the apartment before he starts cooking.

“...Hardison and Parker came by earlier. Couldn’t find much to help us figure out anything. Think you’re up for telling me just what’s going on?” He very carefully doesn’t turn away from the stovetop, doesn’t look back. Doesn’t need to to know the kid’s gone stock still—he’s too quiet by far for anything else.

And maybe it was unfair of him to ask, out of nowhere, right after the kid woke up. But, well.

His friend was missing. The kid himself was beat black and blue, and though he didn’t have evidence just yet (another thing to ask Hardison to track down), he’s pretty damn sure he was running from someone—the type of run where it didn’t matter where you ended up, even if it was just another end of hell, ‘cause at least it wasn’t where you’d been.

And they had nothing to go on.

So, unfair or not, it was out there now.

Quinn’s quiet the entire time Eliot spends cooking, and Eliot lets the silence hold. Shoves a plate with bacon and eggs in front of him and leans back against the kitchen counter with his own plate.

Quinn’s not even looking at him, instead staring down at...at his hands in his lap, shoulders curled in.

“...I...I don’t know.” Is the quiet, lost answer he gets a couple minutes later.

“Start at the beginning, kid. We can make sense of it later.” Eliot offers—it’s not the most reassuring thing, he knows. But he also knows that they need to get this story out, for everyone’s sake. And if Quinn isn’t having another panic attack like the one he had in the bathroom, Eliot was going to count it as a win.

Quinn glances up at him then, clearly trying for a glare and failing miserably with eyes too wide and shiny. But he grabs for his plate, starts shoveling food into his mouth, so Eliot figures he hasn’t pushed too far yet.

“...Last thing I remember,  _ really  _ remember, is a bus. I was hightailing it to Oklahoma City, just...trying to get away. The old man didn’t know yet, and I needed to get out before he did. There’s...there’s  _ nothing _ ,” his voice cracks at the end, and Eliot frowns—at a couple things in those couple of sentences, but that last part’s what gets him moving across the room. He pulls out the closest barstool and hops up, facing Quinn, close, but hopefully not crowding. Quinn doesn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t know when they got me, or-or  _ why _ they wanted me. Don’t even fucking remember most of it. Bright lights, hallways I’m always getting lost in, fucking  _ faces _ . But...but I don’t know who. Or what they wanted or what they were doing to me. It’s all this...this hazy mess.” It’s all said in a rush, like he just needs to get it out, as quickly as possible—almost ends up spitting out the last few words.

And Eliot knows that desire. Knows the hurt that pushes it on and shoves it up and out of your system so quickly the first chance it gets. All he can really think is it’s a good thing there’s a good chance Quinn won’t ever get those memories back—whatever happened that forced them so dark and unfocused isn’t anything he needs to be carrying around.

“I don’t know if I...if there was a plan. This is the clearest I’ve been in...in awhile.” The aside is odd, stilted, and just as quickly glossed over, “Can’t remember if it was something I was waiting for or if the chance just presented itself. But the door was open. And I just...I ran. Didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t-didn’t  _ recognize  _ anything, but I knew where I was going. Kind of....” He flounders there for a moment, finally looks at Eliot with such a wounded look that Eliot has to remind himself not to reach for him.

“I don’t even know what day it is, I don’t know what city I’m in, I don’t know  _ why _ any of this is happening. I just knew I had to-to get away, and I ran and I ended up with you and it’s not  _ right  _ and it feels like a nauseating case of deja vu and I can’t get it out of my head that something’s  _ wrong  _ and I don’t know  _ what  _ and-and-” he claps his hands over his mouth, in a way that does absolutely nothing to stifle the sob that tears out, and curls back in on himself, shoulders shaking too hard for his thin frame.

There’s no conscious decision to toss caution to the wind—he just stands, gently pulls the kid in with an arm tight around his shoulders. He doesn’t grip a hand in his shirt until Quinn presses close of his own accord.


	4. Chapter 4

_Quinn_

 

He fucking hated crying. He always ended up cold, shivering, tense and aching afterwards. And the headache. Don't get him started on the headache.

There hadn’t been a whole lot of talking after his spectacular breakdown—and for that, he was more than a little grateful. Eliot had pulled away when he’d stopped crying, had all but pushed him back into his seat before the man busied himself with cleaning up the kitchen.

Quinn’s comment about going to take a nap was met with a quick nod, and a reminder to yell if he needed anything. He’d bypassed the couch this time, heading for where he remembered Eliot telling him there was a guest room.

It’s a decent room, by all accounts. Simple, clean...and about as plain as the apartment they’d left behind. Off-white walls, bedside table made of plain wood, a full sized bed with navy sheets. A dresser in the corner. It’s blank, and not even the wide bank of windows adds all that much life, especially not with the grey cast from the rain outside sliding into the corners, sapping what little color there is. It’s not raining anymore—or maybe, not yet. He’s not actually sure when the rain from before stopped—but the sky is heavy and thick, and the stone and asphalt he can see is still dark, runoff still floating in the gutters.

But it’s quiet at least. He can vaguely hear Eliot through the closed door—first still messing around in the kitchen, and then what sounds like a heavy _thump_ of someone dropping onto the couch. After that, it’s just a low rumble as he, presumably, starts talking on the phone. Quinn can’t actually hear what’s being said, and it’s not loud enough to break the pall over the room but it’s...it’s nice, if he’s being honest.

He climbs into the bed, not really expecting to actually get any sleep, but needing to get off his feet. Maybe curl up in a ball in the corner. Maybe pretend the world’s only as big as this room and the low rumble of someone safe behind the door.

Just maybe.

* * *

He’s awoken by a knock at the door, and it takes him a good long couple of moments to realize any part of that. His eyes are gritty, his throat is dry, and the headache pounding behind his eyes is still going strong—but the aches in the rest of him have started to subside. Or maybe he’s just getting used to them. Probably that, actually, now that he’s thinking about it.

“Quinn, can you get up for a minute? I wanna talk with you about something.” Eliot calls through the door—it’s too soft though, and Quinn’s still foggy brain takes a minute to catch up. If he’d still been asleep, he wouldn’t have heard any of that.

He can’t  _ really  _ be mad at Eliot for waking him up, when it’s obvious the man was only half-trying. But still, he grumbles and gripes as he fights his way out of the covers and shuffles over to the door. The unlocked door, that Eliot could’ve easily barged into, given that it’s his damn apartment and all.

He cracks it open, hoping the glare he levels at Eliot is as baleful as he wants it to be—he can be thankful and grateful and all that but the man still  _ did  _ wake him up and dammit he’s still tired.. He’s pretty sure he’s failing spectacularly though, if the twitch at the corner of Eliot’s mouth is anything to go by.

“Morning sunshine,” Quinn glances behind him to the windows, where it is very clearly darker than when he went to take a ‘nap’, and then levels a look at Eliot. Which is promptly ignored, “We talking here or you wanna sit in the living room?” Another glare. “Right, here. Okay, I think it’d be best if we ran you by the hospital.” He holds up a hand as soon as Quinn’s mouth opens. “I’ve got a friend there that can get us in and out with no one else the wiser, and it’d be half an hour tops. I just wanna make sure whatever was in your system is out for good.” Ah, so he had caught that then. “And get someone to take a look at those cuts and bruises, ‘cause I gotta be honest kid, you look better, but you still look like shit.”

Quinn can’t help but huff, feeling his chest puff out slightly even as he scowls...only to deflate a second later because, he may not have looked in a mirror since yesterday but if he looks half as bad as he feels, then ‘shit’ is actually pretty kind.

“...Think you’re up for it?” The question’s gentler than the rant that came before it, and though Quinn knows he’s probably not getting out of this entirely (and, he kind of doesn’t want to either, in the long run. Knowing everything’s okay, that everything they pumped into him to make the last couple of weeks a fuzzy hazy mess is gone would be  _ fantastic _ ), the fact that Eliot’s giving him the option to bail now is…

“...If I said no, would you actually take it?” Is what he says instead of any of the ridiculous thoughts that spring to mind because he doesn’t know Eliot, doesn’t know where he is, what day it is, and yet he feels safer here than he ever did in his own fucking home and it’s just now hitting that that might be a sign he’s gone off the fucking deep end.

Eliot looks pained for a second, before he crosses his arms over his chest, drawing himself up straight—and oh, Quinn’s got a good inch or two on him. That...doesn’t really register. He squints slightly, and it looks like Eliot’s about to say something before he catches the look on Quinn’s face, and his own does this complicated maneuver that goes through annoyed to concerned real quick. “Quinn? What’s up?”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a moment, before bringing a hand up to his own head, and then brushing it flat across the space between them. Yep. At least two inches on him. He can’t help the grin that spreads, because suddenly, that’s the funniest goddamn thing he’s seen in a long time, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know his smile is cracking at the edges but it’s  _ there  _ and if he’s not careful he’s going to start laughing too.

“...yeah, for that, you ain’t getting out of shit. Let’s go.” Its brusque, and for half a second, Quinn thinks he might’ve actually pissed Eliot off. He just catches the eye roll as Eliot storms off though, feels his own smile lose a few sharp edges to it as it becomes clear that Eliot is very likely just not calling him on the manic edge to everything—playing it off. Quinn can live with that.

* * *

Nurse Gail is nice. Even if the glare she levels at Eliot is ten kinds of terrifying. But she’s nice to Quinn, so Quinn chalks it up to Eliot doing something specific instead of just a natural personality trait.

She does a quick check of the bigger cuts that’ve started healing by now, takes a cheek swab, and before he can really figure out what’s going on, there’s a needle in his arm drawing blood, and he just about pukes all over her feet.

She apologizes—genuinely too, if her tone and the immediate removal of all needles from sight is a sign—rubbing a hand up and down his back and asking him if he wants her to go get Eliot.

It takes him a couple of minutes, head between his knees while he breathes, before he just shakes his head. There’s no point, it’s already done, and he doesn’t even...know what freaked him out.

(Except that’s a dirty goddamn lie, but trying to tell Eliot—tell  _ anyone  _ that he’d looked down and seen not the truly awful dixie-cup tile flooring of the exam room, but the bleached white (too white, and still streaked with god knows what), almost fluorescent tile of the last exam room he’d been in (had it even been a room? He’s pretty sure there was a door so it stood to reason...but no details were forthcoming so he couldn’t be sure), with another faceless mask pressing another needle into his arm while he couldn’t move—makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth and his stomach churn so bad that he’d rather just fucking lie.)

Gail kind of just...watches him, sharp eyes seeing way too much and what is it, does Eliot only hang out with people as intense as him? But then she smiles, gently, and apologizes again before telling him that, unless the tests come back iffy, as far as she can tell he’s fine. Rest, take some OTC painkillers according to the labels, and he’ll be good as new in no time. There’s an emphasis on the ‘rest’ part, and a glint to her eye that tells him he should probably listen.

That’s fine. All he really wants to do is sleep for the next week.

Getting over to the hospital hadn’t been too bad—they were in the middle of a city (Portland, he’d found out, when Eliot caught him looking around curiously and increasingly confused when he couldn’t recognize anything), but it was late enough in the evening, with heavy enough cloud cover, that anyone who could be home was, and those that weren’t were trying to get there as soon as possible. But he was already starting to feel itchy, in the last hour, something scratching underneath his skin, at being in a new place, with new people, with voices coming in from the halls, and noises coming in from the streets, and he just wanted to get back to Eliot’s apartment and curl up in the corner and not move, let the world melt away again. That had been nice.

Gail bustles him out of the exam room, rolling her eyes at Eliot who had apparently been leaning against the wall across from the door the entire time. “Let him rest, get him some aspirin. We should have the tox results back in a week...unless your friend pulls some strings like he always does, right, whatever, just text me and I’ll make sure the paper copies disappear, alright? Now shoo, kid’s about to collapse where he stands, and it looks like you haven’t sleep in a week.”

Eliot rolls his eyes, pushing away from the wall, but his smile is fond, the crinkles around his eyes deep, “Thank you.” And its as sincere as Gail’s apology earlier and now Quinn’s itching from just the level of sentiment in the air and he wants to go  _ now _ .

So he starts walking towards the exit, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. He kind of wishes he could see the look on Eliot’s face that accompanies the offended sound he hears, but that would involve turning around.

There’s a rough hand in his hair, thoroughly mussing it up and Quinn squawks and tries to swat the offending limb away, but he’s nowhere quick enough, and now Eliot’s grinning at him in a way that tells him if it was in his nature, he’d be cackling. “Don’t be a brat kid, it ain’t cute.”

Quinn rolls his eyes and swats at him again, kind of surprised when Eliot lets him, before shoving his hands in his pockets and falling into step beside him as they exit the hospital.

It’s not that...he’s uncomfortable with the streets. It’s not that. But that itchy feeling is back under his skin and he really just wants to be back in the guest room, with a door between him and the world, and walking the sidewalk, with dusk settling heavy over the cement and stretching out shadows and striking the still hard sunlight and making the world seem stretched and warped around them, with people vaguely slipping in and out, minding their own business, is making him want to bolt and setting his gut to churning again.

Eliot doesn’t say anything when Quinn kind of ducks behind his shoulder as they pass a couple of people, just steps further to the side, so Quinn ends up between Eliot and the buildings instead of Eliot and the people. And it’s not...it’s not much. But it helps.

They get back to the apartment without a word, and though Eliot mentions something about him eating again, the idea just...isn’t appealing, and Eliot seems to get it without a fight, so Quinn retreats back to the guest room.

He just about gets a verifiable nest made in the corner around the time the sky breaks, heavy rain almost immediately slashing against the windows in a dull roar.

Beyond that, the world’s quiet. If Quinn concentrates, really, really tries, he can hear Eliot in the living room, on the phone again. But other than that? It’s just the rain and the haze, and all that’s muffled when he pulls the blanket over his head.

It’s perfect.


	5. Chapter 5

_Eliot_

 

“...I’m not-...what?” Eliot asks into the phone, for the...third? Fourth? Time.

Hardison starts the long rambling speech that’s already burned into Eliot’s brain again, but that doesn’t make what he’s saying any clearer.

“Do I need to come over there? Actually show you this? Will that make it clearer?” Hardison asks, when its obvious Eliot’s still not getting it.

“No, no, just...it doesn’t...make sense. ...Give me two minutes and I’ll be at the restaurant.” He barely waits for Hardison to confirm (but he  _ does  _ wait) before he’s hanging up and heading down the hall. Lightly rapping a knuckle on the door, he waits for any sign Quinn heard him.

The last couple of days had been...tough. To say the least. Quinn had gotten quiet. Small. After the hospital trip. He wasn’t talking to Eliot, and he only left the room if he absolutely had to. Eliot was more than familiar with the decompressing process, and had decided the best course of action would be to leave Quinn be unless something obviously...well. Unless something obviously broke.

But Quinn was, vaguely, responsive when Eliot talked to him. And he was eating and showering. So while it might have been driving Eliot up a damn wall with his inability to do anything, he knew it was best to just let Quinn work things out at his own pace.

And besides, until they’d gotten the test results back, or had any news on their Quinn, there wasn’t much for the kid to do.

He doesn’t hear anything behind the door for a long moment before there’s a bit of a shuffle and a muffled “What?”

“...I need to run to the restaurant for a minute. You up for coming with?” He pauses. “It’s just down the block, and closed today. We’d be the only ones there, with Hardison and Parker.” He adds after a moment, remembering exactly how Quinn had been, leaving the hospital. Small, quiet. Out of the way. Busy, new places weren’t high on the approved list, he was willing to bet.

“Do I really have a choice?” Is what he gets in response and Eliot has to bite his tongue for a second. It wasn’t the first time Quinn had asked him that, or looked like he’d wanted to, in the face of actively having a boundary respected. It made Eliot’s blood boil honestly. But snapping around the kid was probably the quickest way to get him thinking he was snapping  _ at  _ him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

So. Count to five. Count back to one.

“Yeah, ‘course you do. I don’t want to leave you here alone-” they’d been unable to find any noise about a missing kid of Quinn’s description, and none of Hardison’s little webcrawlers and found anything less than savory talking about a kid bolting into Portland either, but still. They didn’t know who did this, any of this, didn’t know if anyone was still looking for him or not. “But Hardison’s willing to come here too.”

It’s quiet for another moment. Then a  _ thump  _ and more shuffling, and then the door’s being hauled open. Quinn looks...well, not better, but the obvious bruises are starting to, slowly, fade, and there’s some color coming back to his cheeks. There’s still dark circles under his eyes, a slump to his shoulders, and the way he holds himself is far from what Eliot would call ‘healthy,’ but it’s a start.

“...Down the actual block, block? Or down the block that’s actually a mile?” He snipes, but there’s no real heat to it, and Eliot’s pretty sure that by getting up in the first place, Quinn’s already agreed to come. But he rolls his eyes and offers a grin anyway.

“The actual block. Come on.” He’s pretty sure Quinn’s pulling a face behind him, but the kid’s following so whatever.

He’s also pretty sure that Quinn’s been basically living in that jacket Eliot had shoved at him almost a week ago now, despite the fact that he knew there’d been decent hoodies and jackets in the bags of clothes he’d asked Parker to go pick up for the kid when it became obvious he’d be staying in Eliot’s guest room for a little while. He couldn’t say he really minded so much—it was an old, beat up thing, but warm and sturdy, too wide in the shoulders for Quinn—as it was just a detail to file away for later.

They make it to the brewpub pretty quickly, despite Eliot having to play barricade for an increasingly twitchy Quinn the longer they’re on the sidewalk. But, like he promised, when they get to the brewpub, the front is dark and locked, and when they slip into the back, Hardison and Parker are perched at the island, alone. Quinn relaxes almost as soon as the door’s closed behind him, even if the look he shoots the other two is wary as hell. And Eliot gets it. They may have seen him, but outside of being told they’d been in his space, he hasn’t met them yet.

“There should be something to eat in the kitchen, if you wanna go look. This’ll just take a minute, alright?” Quinn shoots him a suspicious look before glancing around, shrugging, and heading off towards where Eliot waved a hand.

That settled, he slips over to the two thieves currently watching them quietly. He says nothing, dropping heavily into the barstool at Hardison’s side. And if he ends up leaning against Hardison’s shoulder slightly, feeling a weight lifted off his back just by being there, well. No one says anything about it.

(They know he’s spent the last several days chasing down as many leads as he could, calling in favors, drudging through the false leads and straight up dead ends, just as much as they have. But they’ve been together for it, while he dealt with a kid processing a traumatic fall out he couldn’t even remember, and knowing the longer they couldn’t find anything, the higher the chance his friend was dead.)

Instead of commenting on how all of them look a little rough around the edges—there’s a wild glint to Parker’s eyes and a shake to Hardison’s knee, and Eliot doesn’t even want to know what he looks like right now—Hardison just pushes his computer over, all the info he’d been trying to share with Eliot over the phone up on the screen.

Plain as day.

There’s only two really important pieces of information he gets from the mess of windows on screen.

One, while the tox screen came back with evidence of heavy sedatives, all of them were ones he knew for a fact were short-term. They’d be well out of Quinn’s system by now, and if he wasn’t showing withdrawal symptoms by now, he wasn’t going to be. So. That was a relief.

And two, the one he’s having trouble wrapping his head around, is the 100% match flashing. Next to a picture of Quinn,  _ their  _ Quinn. Hell, the picture’s only two years old, taken during an Interpol bust. Quinn’s dressed in his normal dress shirt, even if the stains on it suggest it’ll never be white again, and his hair’s a fly-away mess. But the shit-eating look is all Quinn.

And the kid’s DNA is apparently a perfect match.

And Hardison’s...Hardison doesn’t mess up like that. And he trusts Gail with his life, so there’s no mess up on her end.

He knows Hardison’s run the DNA through every program he could.  _ Knows  _ Hardison has checked every avenue. Has probably run himself ragged doing so.

“...Are we actually considering this?” His voice comes out remarkably calm. Steady. And most importantly, quiet. He can hear...the kid, behind them in the kitchen, rummaging around. There’s a vague thought that hopes he actually eats something since he hasn’t today yet.

“I don’t know what to tell you man. These programs are the best in the world, and while a glitch in one is possible...a glitch in all of them? And the same glitch?” Hardison’s voice has gone up an octave, like he can’t believe what he’s saying anymore than Eliot can believe what he’s hearing.

Only Parker’s quiet—suspiciously so, if Eliot paused to think about it. She’s quiet up until Eliot looks at her, and even then, it takes a moment. There’s a look on her face, one he’s seen plenty of times. She’s working things through, running over all the possibilities and slotting together the ones that fit and casting aside the ones that do. The only problem is, the longer she’s quiet, the more frustrated she looks and that never bodes well. Eventually though, she looks first him, then Hardison, dead in the eye.

“Is it impossible?”

It’s not the question he’s expecting, nor Hardison if the confused sound he lets out is anything to by, and the ‘of course it is, Parker!’ and the ‘this isn’t some damn sci-fi movie!’ are on the tip of his tongue, before he gets a close look at her face again. Stops himself. Thinks.

Remembers hazy nights, drugged out of his mind in some hellhole of a back alley. Remembers doing double takes at papers scattered on desks as he and his team clear out the latest underground storehouse. Remembers men disappearing from the ranks, pulling files entirely blacked out. Remembers the word classified being thrown around as easy as a court-martial. Remembers being told those men never existed and to just forget about them.

He doesn’t  _ know _ . It seems impossible. Seems wholly and entirely out of this realm of possibility. But he’s also seen so much, heard even more, whispered rumors and gun-fire flash of wisps.

He doesn’t want to think about all the little secrets in the world, and he certainly doesn’t want to bring them into his home.

Instead, he scrubs a hand down his face. “...Hey Hardison, pull up that land deed you found real quick.”

He doesn’t want to believe it. But there’s a real quick thing he wants to test first. Hardison shoots him a weird look, but does as he asks.

Right.

He pushes away from the island and slips over to where Quinn is in the kitchen. There’s that vague feeling from before, hoping he’d eat, that’s satisfied to see Quinn’s helped himself to a sandwich at least. He’s sitting quietly at the table pushed against the wall, lost in his own little world.

Eliot slides into the chair across from him and just. Looks. For a moment.

Tries to overlay his Quinn on...on this one. The kid’s got another inch to grow. A breadth to his shoulders to gain. A confidence in his step to learn. A life to his eyes to regain. But he can see it. Saw it when he first dragged the kid home. Shook it off then as familial resemblance, nothing more.

But he can see it.

Doesn’t make what he needs to ask any easier.

“...Quinn?” His voice is scratchy as hell, and clearing his throat does nothing for it. Quinn looks up at him though, eyes curious for the first time in days. “Got a weird question for you. That cool?” He waits for the wary nod. Takes another breath. “What’s your dad’s name?”

Quinn blinks at him. Blinks again. Sits back in his chair, hand holding his sandwich dropping to rest on the table. “Nathan Thomas.” He look turns mulish. “...got the name from Ma’s side.” And that is so far from the realm of Eliot’s concern that he almost laughs. Almost.

Instead, he kind of just has to put his head in his hands and breath for a long, long moment.

He has to tell him.

* * *

Shit gets...very confused for a little while there. Eliot tries explaining to Quinn that it’s most definitely not 1996—they’d gotten a date somewhere in there, for Quinn’s bus trip, but Eliot would be hard pressed to remember how—and that, up until five months ago, Quinn was...well. Quinn. Their Quinn. Whole and healthy (as healthy as a hitter ever is anyway) and most definitely 33 years old. Not...not 16. Not young and small and broken. (He definitely keeps those last couple of things to himself, even if it takes biting his tongue to do so).

They keep it to the bare facts. They don’t bring up that...that Quinn’s lost seventeen years of his life. A life  _ he  _ built. They don’t bring up the decade and a half of memories that’re just  _ gone _ . They don’t bring up that they have no idea who  _ this  _ Quinn is, because they didn’t meet Quinn until he was 28 and settled into himself and cocky enough to take on the world. They don’t bring up that they’re fucking terrified and don’t know what to do.

They keep it to the bare facts.

It doesn’t help.

* * *

Eliot barely gets Quinn back to the apartment before the yelling starts. Before the tears start. Before he has to catch Quinn as his knees give out, even as he’s still trying to...to bodily voice a pain Eliot can’t even imagine, with fists swinging out to beat at the closest thing (which ends up being Eliot’s arms and chest), legs shaking too hard to hold him, and shoulders shaking with great heaves that still don’t get enough air into his lungs.

Eliot lets him hit. Takes the brunt of it without a sound. Lets him flail. Lets him scream. Lets him cry.

He’s pretty sure none of it helps.

* * *

Quinn ends up passed out on him after...after god knows how long. All the energy’s just been drained out of him, and all Eliot can do is support his frame. All Eliot can do is gently haul the kid to bed.

All Eliot can do is fuss around him. Settle Quinn in. Make sure he’s not going to wake up anytime soon.

All Eliot can do is focus on the kid in front of him.

All Eliot can do is pretend he’s not ready to scream, to cry too. It’s fucking selfish is what it is, and he wants to beat it out of his own head.

But all Eliot can do is make sure Quinn’s as comfortable as he can be, and go to call Hardison to figure out their next steps, pretending with each step that he’s not mourning a friend.


	6. Chapter 6

_Quinn_

 

If he’s being honest with himself, later (much later), he doesn’t remember the next couple of days.

He stays in the guest room. Comes out when it’s dark and Eliot’s made his show of going to bed (at this point, they both know that they both know he’s doing no such thing. But when Quinn wouldn’t come out while Eliot was anywhere else, it had become a  _ thing _ ). Typically finds a plate of food waiting in the microwave.

Eats. Showers, if he thinks he can stand up long enough. Goes back to bed.

That’s about all he can remember, later.

He doesn’t think he even really...processed. In fact, he’s sure of it. There was no processing going on then. Just...blank. Existing. Barely.

And who can fucking blame him?

He’s apparently the star of some sci-fi toss-away plot. Fucking... _ seventeen years _ . Just. Gone.

He can’t imagine being older. Can’t imagine the changes his body went through to get there. Can’t imagine the changes he went through to get...back to what he has now.

Can’t wrap his head around stepping on the bus to Oklahoma City and there being a whole life that stretched out after that. A  _ life _ .

And he remembers none of it.

Has no proof of any of it.

Just thinking about tends to have bile rising in the back of his throat.

The one time he actually saw Eliot, those couple of days, is when he actually did puke.

He’d caught himself rubbing his thumb where he had thought—where something in the back of his mind had  _ insisted _ —there was a scar, tissue raised and curled up under his rib. It was smooth skin, of course, just the same as when he’d first done it in the mirror.

But he’d caught himself doing it, and realized something: he didn’t remember anything, had nothing more than a void in his brain that made him sick to look at for too long. But his body? His body remembered. Maybe not everything, certainly not everything. But enough. And he had no idea  _ what _ . He felt trapped in his own skin, like his own hands were betraying him.

Eliot hadn’t complained when Quinn had shuffled out, asked for help cleaning things up. Had looked almost insulted when Quinn insisted he could do it himself, just show him where the cleaning supplies were. He was banished to the couch, and when he was let back in the room, it smelled faintly of lemons and base cleaner. No bleach, thank god.

It took another four days before he felt like he could...could breathe. Felt like he could get out of bed and  _ think _ .

He still doesn’t feel right in his skin. Doesn’t think he ever will again, knowing what he knows.

But he can stand. He can breathe. And he can handle the idea of seeing Eliot in the daylight again.

He can tell Eliot’s surprised to see him, even if he does his best to hide it quickly. He almost manages. Almost manages to hide the shadow of...of  _ hurt  _ that’s right on its heels. Its gone in another breath but it hits Quinn like a punch to the gut regardless.

But he’s out. And he kind of wants to stay out. So no meeting Eliot’s eyes for awhile.

(He gets it, he thinks. As much as he can get any of this. The three of them were careful, only to give him the basics. But it wasn’t hard to figure out that they’d been friends with...with him. That Eliot had probably been closer. That Eliot had lost a friend, even as Quinn had lost a life. It’d probably take awhile for him to shake it. And if Quinn’s gut clenched up instinctively in anger and rage at the idea, well. He could keep it to himself, ‘cause the logical part of his brain got it. And that would have to be enough.)

* * *

H e doesn’t stay out and about in the apartment for long, those next couple of days (...might be closer to a little over a week actually but hell if he knows). Doesn’t talk much with Eliot besides the basics. Retreats to the guest room pretty quickly, to curl back up and ignore everything while his brain goes and goes and  _ goes _ .

He hits on an idea, another handful of days after that.

Shuffles out into the living room where Eliot’s watching some football game. Quinn can tell he’s not really into it, so he doesn’t feel too bad about interrupting.

He doesn’t like thinking about the fact that he  _ can  _ tell. He may not have spent a whole lot of time outside of the room for awhile now, but the times he did? Eliot hadn’t really...tried to hide anything, besides the hurt. Quinn knew when Eliot was exhausted (always), when Hardison or Parker had just called, when he thought something was funny, and when he found whatever he was watching either boring or offensive.

And it scared him.

Because he knew Eliot could hide. He may have been slow, hiding both the hurt and surprise that one time. But before that? He hadn’t been able to get a damn read on Eliot. At all. Which told him that Eliot was...was letting him see.

It didn’t help with any of the swirling  _ things  _ in his head. But it did help him feel...and god, he hated this word by now, but  _ safe _ . If he could read Eliot, he could read the only unknown variable (if he pretends real hard and ignores the outside world, which he plans on doing for a while yet) in his space. Could anticipate reactions and react accordingly.

Eliot shoots him a sideways glance. He’s no longer surprised when Quinn just pops in out of nowhere. Just...tired. And curious. But he stays quiet, waiting.

“...What was I like?”

Oh, there’s the surprise. Hell, Eliot almost drops the remote. If Quinn was feeling a little better, he might’ve laughed. As it is, he just watches Eliot. Waits for the shock to pass. Waits to see if he’ll give him this.

“What’s it matter? You’re you. You’re gonna be you. Ain’t no point in having some outside voice in your head.” And it’s sensible. Logical. Thought out enough that he’s pretty sure Eliot’s been waiting for the question for days now.

But it’s not enough.

“What was I like?”

And Eliot shoots him an unimpressed look. Quinn does his best to return it.

Its quiet, for a long, long couple of minutes. For those last couple, Quinn had a sick feeling in his gut that Eliot would tell him ‘no’. Just shut him down, and refuse.

But then Eliot sighs. His shoulders droop and he slides further back onto the couch, one arm going across his stomach while his other hand drags down his face. He’s not looking at Quinn anymore.

“...you-” He stops, almost chokes, if Quinn’s honest, “He.  _ He _ was a good man. Not an honest one. Not even a nice one. But a  _ good  _ one. Too full of energy, too full of sarcasm. Had my back when I asked. Couldn’t think to ask if I had his in return.”

None of it rings familiar. Quinn can’t even say any of it rings  _ right _ . Instead, all he’s getting is a severe sense of deja vu, listening as Eliot describes a stranger whose skin he shares.

It’s hard to hear.

But not nearly enough.

* * *

The next week is spent trying to get as much information out of Eliot as possible.

And Quinn knows he’s pushing it too far. Doesn’t know if its because Eliot refuses to leave him alone in the apartment, so he can’t get a break, or if he’d be this annoyed and bristly even if he did get one.

He doesn’t really care either.

He needs to  _ know _ .

He finds out he...the first...fuck,  _ Eliot’s friend _ never actually told him much beyond the basic sketch of his history. How he’d successfully hightailed it out of Oklahoma. How he somehow ended up in the Army, but only for one tour (as far as Eliot could gather, since apparently Eliot’s friend had never actually clarified), before he’d wound up in Europe.

How Eliot’s friend liked expensive clothes no matter how often he messed them up.

How Eliot’s friend hated fish with a passion, but could be tricked into eating sushi on occasion, if there was enough wasabi and ginger, which Eliot despaired of to no end apparently.

How Eliot knew, but never asked, that he’d grown up rough, because they both had the same insecurities when it came to the money they made. Eliot showed his in controlling what he bought to the point of neuroticism, even he could admit it, that he’d only managed to temper and grow out of in the last couple of years. Eliot’s friend apparently went exactly the opposite direction of the exact same sliding scale—spending as much as he could, as fast as he could, ‘cause it didn’t mean a damn thing anyway.

How Eliot’s friend was prone to disappearing without a word, only to show up again with an infuriating grin and a black eye.

Eliot never talks about what he actually  _ did  _ though. What Eliot  _ currently  _ does. Quinn’s managed to figure out its similar, if not identical lines of work, but, as hard as he pushes, its the one thing Eliot doesn’t budge on. He tries to tell Quinn the brewpub is the only work he has, but all Quinn has to do there is glare and Eliot just shrugs—not even looking sheepish, which pisses Quinn off.

He knows he’s pushing. Can see it in the strain around Eliot’s eyes. The hard set of his mouth. The tense of his shoulders everytime Quinn says “so I was wondering…”

But Quinn can’t really bring himself to care.

* * *

It’s not all dragging Eliot through the ringer.

When Quinn figures out he can manage the outside world, as long as the outside world stops at the apartment’s front door, he finds its easier to breathe if he’s around Eliot. Watching him try to fill a day he’s pretty sure was a lot busier without Quinn in it.

He feels bad for about two seconds.

But Eliot doesn’t complain. Just spends a lot of time on the phone, alternately growling, yelling and whining. Quinn’s figured out the first two are to the employees of the brewpub (actually getting it out of Eliot that he was the damn chef there, and not just an owner, was like pulling teeth), while the last one is to either Hardison or Parker. Hardison has the Doctor Who theme song as his ringtone, Parker’s got Mission Impossible. Quinn’s not actually sure if Eliot knows how easy his expression goes, when he hears them. Or if he knows he smiles like a dumbass half the time. Quinn’s not exactly eager to point it out, in case he gets offended over it or whatever.

(He hears the Imperial March once, and that’s about the only time Eliot leaves the apartment. Just to the hallway, but still. The door closed in Quinn’s face is a pretty clear message.)

Otherwise, Eliot’s...cooking. Or on his laptop. Or watching whatever game he’s recorded. Or reading. Or beating up the sandbag in his bedroom that Quinn’s only seen in flashes before the door closes.

For all that it’s...boring (so, so boring, oh god), it’s. Well. It’s weird. But in a good way?

His home was never this quiet. Never this...calm. He couldn’t just. Exist in the space there, like he can here.

(It’s weird. It’s so, so weird. Eliot walks around the apartment, footsteps heavy and solid, echoing in Quinn’s ears and it should bring dread, it should be too familiar and too foreboding. But it’s not in the goddamn least. He’d noticed it when they’d first met, that Eliot was solid, tightly coiled—but he’d never once moved at Quinn in a way that set off alarm bells. Never once held himself too tall, too still. Never let the dead quiet stretch long enough to leave Quinn floundering. It itches under his skin, but not in any way he can figure out for now.)

Quinn manages to get Eliot to debate with him about movies they end up watching when they’re both bored out of their minds, and about movies Eliot insists he needs to see before Hardison gets ahold of him (whatever that means). Gets Eliot to talk him through what he’s cooking (not that he particularly cares—it’s  _ cooking _ —but Eliot relaxes when he’s talking about it, and manages to make everything sound delicious and amazing, so Quinn’s not nearly as put out as he acts).

He eventually ends up hearing all about the people who work at the brewpub—too many names, but he has a vague idea. How he handpicks each and every one of them. How proud he is of the staff he’s got there. How some woman named Amy’s gonna kill him if he stays away much longer because apparently the kitchen’s a disaster without him. How that same woman’s gonna kill her boss because he won’t stop taking free reign of the menu while Eliot’s away.

In between the bouts of tense, aggravated interrogations, the long hours where Quinn doesn’t want to get out of bed and the only thing keeping him grounded is hearing the heavy thump of the sandbag in the next room, the long stretches of calm where neither of them are doing much of anything in each other’s space, the easy conversations, the slow learning about Eliot’s life outside the apartment, the laughing at stupid action movies and groaning and grumbling through the latest game (seriously, the man is way too into sports) is...nice. Something he doesn’t have to think about. Something he can be comfortable with. Relax into and pretend this safe little bubble he’s building up is all he’s got to worry about.

* * *

He’s both expecting it, and not, when Eliot actually breaks and yells at him.

Its an explosive thing—fast, and loud, and fucking terrifying, because Eliot’s blank again, not letting Quinn read him, and Quinn doesn’t even think it’s on purpose, thinks maybe that’s just how Eliot is when he’s gone—with Eliot yelling at him to just fucking drop it, to just  _ stop _ .

And Quinn knows it’s supposed to be angry at the end, too.

But he also knows, when a bomb’s done exploding? All that’s left are pieces, torn up and tossed aside.

And that’s all he sees when Eliot’s done yelling.

He’s not scared. Never once thought Eliot would move towards him during the rant, never once thought Eliot would do anything except what he does. Yells, paces through the kitchen. Keeps himself carefully away from Quinn, because even if he has no intentions on anything, Quinn’s learned real quick that the man controls his body like nothing he’s ever seen, because he knows exactly how he looks.

He’s expecting it because he doesn’t think, had their situations been reversed, he would’ve lasted as long as Eliot did. And he’s not because...he hadn’t been about to ask anything about Eliot’s friend. But, quickly replaying the conversation, he’d started with “so I was wondering…” and has to wince.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t feel bad about this anymore, not with the way Eliot won’t look at him. Not with the way Eliot makes himself smaller, even with the distance between them.

Not with the way Eliot raises a hand when Quinn opens his mouth and just says “Don’t.” and all Quinn can do is snap his mouth shut.

Eliot leaves then—for one, heart-palpitating moment, Quinn thinks he’s misjudged and that Eliot will actually leave him alone in the apartment, go somewhere Quinn can’t follow right now, but instead, he’s just rounding the island, and heading for his room. The door doesn’t quite slam. But it’s a pointed not-slam. And soon enough, there’s the steady  _ thump-thump-thump _ of fists hitting that damn sandbag.

It’s just. It’s not fair.

To either of them.

He doesn’t really think they’re equal, in the losses they’re both dealing with—not by a longshot, and his pride is about ready to go throw down to prove it, even while he tries to stamp that part of him down. Hard.

It’s not the same, no.

But he hadn’t been terrorizing Eliot because he was trying to make it fair. He’d been doing because he hadn’t wanted to think. Hadn’t wanted to deal with anything going on, and learning about the stranger Eliot knew was as distracting as anything else. More so, even, because if he could build a clear enough picture of this stranger, maybe, just maybe, he could eventually try to step into his shadow. Fill out his skin. Make his own stop feeling  _ wrong _ .

But it hasn’t been working. Everything Eliot’s told him, while nice, while informative, hasn’t...rung anything, in his mind. Maybe the vaguest sense of deja vu, here and there. But there’s no details to what Eliot tells him. There’s no story behind the disliking fish thing, just the bare fact that apparently Eliot’s friend didn’t like fish.

There’s no stories about getting to Europe or what he did there. Nothing about his time in the army. Or what he did with that year between when he left home and when he was even able to join the army.

Nothing.

And Eliot told him why, is the fucking thing. Eliot’s friend hadn’t told him. So Eliot couldn’t tell Quinn.

And the way he said it? The way he told Quinn he only knew the basic sketch? He had a sick feeling in his throat that that...was just how it’d been. That what Eliot knew was as much as anyone else knew. That Eliot’s friend had played things so close to the chest, that with everything...with everything  _ gone _ , all of that? All of that was gone too.

It should be a relief—there’s no history for him to live up to (in the distant future when he can even think about that). But instead it’s just...it’s a weight in his chest. There’s no history. No identity, for him to fall back on.

The tears are hot, sliding down his cheeks, and god fucking dammit, he’s fucking sick of crying. It doesn’t solve anything, and it just makes him feel sick ‘cause he knows whatever he’s crying about is still going to be a problem when he’s done.

He wipes roughly at his face, willing the tears to stop, and knowing damn well they won’t, before he stomps down the the hall. It’s a close thing, but he remembers to knock. Remembers to wait until he hears Eliot’s gruff “come in” from the other side, before he does just that.

Eliot has his hands taped up—it’s a messy job, Quinn notices, nothing like the neat, even ties he’s seen Eliot coming out of his room with some mornings, when it’s clear he’s been awake for hours already—but he’s stopped working the bag at least. He looks like he wants to snap something, but visibly reigns himself in. Eyes Quinn up and down. Stares intently at his face.

Quinn can feel the tears coming on hard still, but all he can do is glare, dare Eliot to say a damn thing about it.

After a moment, Eliot just shakes his head, rests his forehead on the bag for a long breathe-in, breathe-out. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s not exactly what Quinn came in here to say. But, given he had no idea  _ what  _ he came in here to say, he’d take it.

Eliot glances back over, eyeing him for a long moment, before tilting his head towards the edge of the bed. Quinn sits down heavily, scrubbing at his face again. The tears are slowing down at least, but they haven’t stopped and at this point, he doesn’t even feel like he’s crying—too much, too often lately that it’s just a thing that’s happening and he just has to wait it out.

The bed next to him lists slightly as Eliot sits down next to him, still quiet. When Quinn looks over, Eliot’s eyeing his own hands, arms propped on his legs.

“...I didn’t mean to yell.” Is what he starts with. Barrels on before Quinn can argue with him about that, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, you’ve been an infuriating little shit, and I needed a moment. But it should’ve have been like that.” Quinn snaps his mouth shut, offering what he’s sure is a sheepish, watery smile when Eliot looks over out of the corner of his eyes. He can’t even be all that mad about the comment—it’s been true the last long while, and he knew it. “I get-” He pauses, frowns down at his hands again. “No, I don’t get it. But...you wanting to know about...about him isn’t anymore surprising than any of the rest of this.”

“...But he was your friend. And instead of him, you’ve got a walking, talking reminder that he’s gone?.” Quinn adds on, quietly. The look Eliot shoots him is surprised—brow furrowed, the slant of his mouth troubled, and Quinn has a moment of realization that Eliot probably didn’t even stop to think about it like that. Probably didn’t  _ let  _ himself, if the sketch of the man he’s been building over the last couple of weeks is close to accurate. “...Hey, the infuriating little shit can be, occasionally, observant you know. I’m not  _ completely  _ self-absorbed.” And that gets a snort from Eliot. Quinn’s pretty sure he should be insulted, but the tense air around them’s broken, and that’s all he can really focus on.

“I just...you know, I can’t look in the mirror? Haven’t since you hauled me over here. It feels like there’s this...this shape. Over everything I do. And everyone else can see it, see where it starts, see where it ends, see what it would do and what it wouldn’t. Everyone but...me. And maybe...maybe if I…”

“Maybe if you know enough, you can fill it out like you’re supposed to?” And it’s Quinn’s turn to look surprised. It’s not a hard concept, he knows that. But Eliot doesn’t sound like he thinks the idea’s ridiculous, or out there, or even like he’s surprised that that’s where Quinn’s been heading.

“What was that you were saying about being observant?” And Quinn squawks and shoves at him, even as Eliot just laughs, soft and under his breath. “ _ That  _ I get, kid. Different situations, but the impulse ain’t that odd, you know?” And no, Quinn doesn’t know. Which must show on his face (or, you know, by the way he moves to face Eliot, sitting crosslegged on the end of the bed. That might do it.)

“...Guess we’re doing this huh?” Eliot doesn’t look all  _ that  _ put out though—more like he’s making a show of it. He leans back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. “...Alright. You already know the brewpub’s not my only job.”  _ Duh _ . Eliot ignores the look. “Well, I’m…” he grimaces slightly, “I’m a retrieval specialist. And a lot of the time, I’m just a bruiser. Hardison and Parker? They’re thieves. Best in the damn business, and if they wanted to they could take over the goddamn world.” And there’s a gravity to how he says that, just then, that Quinn doesn’t doubt the truth of the statement for a second, even if, thinking back on what little he’d seen of the two, the description just doesn’t match. But, he keeps his mouth shut.

“We help people, when we can. Find those that’ve been wronged by someone or something bigger, stronger, richer. Get them a piece of what they lost back. It’s never everything, but it’s something.” Eliot pauses then, blinking, then shaking his head. “Anyway. That’s only been going on about six years now. Before that? I made my way fighting whoever I was paid to. Hell, sometimes just whoever I was pointed at, or whoever wandered into my way. It was good money, if you could handle it. I...did a lot of things I ain’t proud of. A lot of things that I’ll never be able to make right. But it was still a better place than I’d been.”

Quinn opens his mouth to ask after  _ that _ , because the look Eliot gets on his face suggests a whole other story, but Eliot just shakes his head and Quinn grumbles slightly but otherwise stays quiet.

“Not the point I’m getting at though. I left home at eighteen—soon as I could get my orders. I was angry at nothing, at everything, and just wanted a reason for it all. Took five years and two tours to realize I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. Woke up, every morning, looking for that angry, dirt-streaked little brat that had hopped on that damn bus without a second thought. And you know, I still haven’t found him?” There’s another laugh there, bitter, and low, and Quinn hates it. “In the years after that, I made someone else, built him up, piece by piece. Figured out how I should stand, how I should walk, how I should carry myself and how I should talk. And I could look in the mirror, and I thought I was okay. Because what looked back at me was something I’d made—something I’d filled out just right. It fit what everyone was looking for and as long as I stuck to that, no one would be able to pick at the cracks. Fill in something else when I wasn’t looking.”

“Thing about mirrors, kid? They never show you what you want, long as you’re looking for something that ain’t there. You can try, and try, build something in your mind, act it out perfectly, but at some point, you’re gonna find the crack, and the whole thing’s gonna shatter. And ain’t nothing gonna be looking back at you except your own scared eyes, trying to figure out how you let things get that far.”

Quinn’s not even sure Eliot’s talking to him anymore. He’s still leaning back on his hands, looking up at the ceiling, his voice gone soft towards the end. But then he looks right at him, eyes clear.

“Stop trying to make something in the mirror alright? You wanna know about him, I’ll tell you. But you gotta promise me, you ain’t gonna keep chasing after someone that’s gone.” And they’re both ignoring the rasp to his voice at the end of that, the shine to his eyes. “You’re gonna be you, no matter what you do from here on out. Adding a neurotic obsession ain’t gonna help.” And with that, Quinn has a hand in his face that’s gently shoving him back, and all he can do is laugh—thick and wet, maybe, but the tears have stopped—and nod.

“Alright, alright, leave me alone,” he whines, trying to swat at Eliot’s arm. He knows for a fact Eliot lets him move him, but whatever. “...We good then?”

Eliot rolls his eyes at that, shoving himself up. “We weren’t ever not good, kid. Now shoo, outta my room. Go watch tv or something.” And Quinn rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told without much fuss. They could both use a bit of time to themselves, for a bit.


	7. Chapter 7

_Eliot_

 

“There’s nothing to talk about, Hardison.”

“Nothing to-Nothing to talk about?” And someday, someday him and Parker are gonna break and tell Hardison he tends to go high pitched when he’s annoyed. Someday.

“Where’re we gonna put him? Huh? We can’t find who had him in the first place—unless you’ve managed to track that damn ship?”

“I told you, not yet. Hell, there’s a good chance they were only using it for transport, and he took off during the mess. For all I can find, they’ve gone to ground, completely. Whoever they are. And that’s not the point Eliot.”

“Yes, it is. Where are we gonna put him, if not here? We don’t know who’s looking for him, we don’t know where they are, we don’t know what they’ll do to get him back. You want to put that mess on someone else?”

“Well, no but-”

“No. So there’s nothing to talk about. He’s staying here.”

“...Okay. Have you talked with him about that?”

“Kid hyperventilates at the idea of leaving the apartment still.” And he can hear Quinn squawk that  _ he does not!  _ from the living room, but he just ignores it for now.

“...Fair enough. Have  _ you  _ thought about what having them here is about?”

“What? Of course I have Hardi-”

“Eliot. Have you thought about the fact that going mama bear on a stranger, essentially, and kidnapping him to your apartment was maybe not the best course of action? And come on man, we haven’t seen you in two weeks.”

“...Yes, I’ve thought about it. And we’re...we’re getting there, alright?” He drops his voice, knowing full well Quinn could keep listening if he really wanted to, but at least trying for some semblance of privacy. “And, believe it or not, yes, this has been fully thought out. And even if it hadn’t been, he needs someone who knows what’s going on, and he needs somewhere safe. It hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park, but we’re managing, alright?”

“...He’s sticking around, huh?” And Hardison’s tone is soft, and Eliot knows that all of this has been his round about way of asking if they’re okay, if  _ he’s  _ okay, and he feels all the tension seep out of his shoulders.

“We haven’t...haven’t really discussed that, beyond the whole ‘obviously staying here’ part. If he wants to go somewhere else, when it’s safe, I ain’t gonna stop him. But until then? Yeah.”

“Alright, E. Glad to hear there’s at least some thought going on there. But seriously man. Two weeks. Get Shelley to babysit if you need to. But Amy’s threatening to burn the restaurant down, Parker’s bringing home terrifying amounts of sugar, and we...well, we just miss you.”

“And Hardison’s been watching your favorite movies ‘cause he says it’s better than nothing!” Parker calls out in the background, and Eliot snorts out a laugh, even as Hardison hisses at her that that was  _ done in confidence, woman! _

“Yeah, yeah, soon. Told you, we’re working on it.”

“Uh-huh. Believe it when I see it, E.” He’s trying for the annoyed tone he’d had at the beginning of the conversation, but failing miserably, and Eliot can’t help but smile.

“Tell Parker I said hi. And to stop stashing chocolate in the restaurant’s kitchen. Amy’s been texting me about it melting everywhere.” He hangs up before Hardison can start in on that, sighing heavily and tapping his phone against his forehead for a moment. He may not have openly admitted it, but he missed Hardison and Parker too. They were controlled chaos and he hadn’t gone without it for...a long while now. While his time with Quinn was hardly calm, it was definitely more trying to reign in the chaos instead of the ebb and flow he was used to.

(He missed Hardison’s laugh, and Parker’s smile, and the way the back of the brewpub always smelled faintly of artificial orange and burnt sugar. He missed collapsing on the couch back there and just letting the two of them chatter and talk and eventually haul him into the conversation despite his insistence that he was trying to relax. And it had only been two weeks and wow he was getting soft.)

(That was okay.)

“...Why do you come out here to talk to them anyway? You know I can hear you, right? Including that weird thing where you definitely have heart eyes, but in your voice.” Quinn’s commentary doesn’t startle him, but it’s a near thing.

He’s currently crouched in the hallway outside the apartment, arms on his knees, and Quinn’s poking his head out the door, looking for all the world like he’s trying to look innocent. He can’t quite get there though, not with the shit eating smirk he’s sporting.

“Not a damn word, brat.” Eliot levels a finger in Quinn’s direction, trying for a menacing scowl. Quinn just snorts at him.

“Too late. Now hurry up, you promised breakfast.”

“Bossy little…” But Eliot’s smiling, and pushing himself up, shooing Quinn back inside.

Things have been...better. Since their talk.

Quinn still asks a lot of questions, but now, its just as likely to be about him as it is about Eliot, or about a movie, or a game, or just some random question off the top of his head.

And for every question Quinn asks, Eliot tries to give one back. Part of the problem, he’d realized, after their little chat, had been Eliot just...not engaging with Quinn, except when Quinn started it. And since Quinn had only been looking for answers about his friend, there hadn’t been any other way for their conversations to go.

So now, a question about where he learned to make pierogi, gets met with a question about Quinn’s favorite movie. One about why Eliot hates beets gets one about if Quinn’s okay with the clothes they got him, or if he’d like something different. Why Eliot likes country music and can’t stand Elvis, Quinn’s fascination with fish despite his general refusal to eat it.

It’s more lively, more relaxed, and just  _ better _ , and Eliot can’t help but smile sometimes about it, because it’s ridiculous, but its his life right now, so he might as well just go along for the ride.

Quinn learns that Eliot can’t stand black coffee (he’ll drink it, if there’s nothing else, but it’s definitely not a thing he looks for), and Eliot learns that Quinn has never had proper french toast in his life. Which is a damn shame. That he intends to fix. Immediately.

...And maybe the mother bear comment from Hardison wasn’t so far off.

But whatever. He was known to go to similar lengths when Hardison and Parker told him they hadn’t tried something. And he was pretty sure they were playing him half the time, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care too much about it.

“...So. I was thinking. If you wanted to go to the brewpub...I could. I dunno. Hang out in the back? For a bit? Maybe?” It takes Eliot a moment to actually catch most of that, Quinn having been apparently speaking directly into his hands, or something. Eliot didn’t know, since he had his back to him—and carefully kept it so while he kept an eye on the pan.

“You sure you’re up for that?” He asks, when nothing else comes after a moment.

“I mean. No.” And Eliot looks back at that, and sure enough, Quinn’s got this pained little smile on his face. “But they’re right. You’ve been cooped up here, with me, for almost three weeks. And you’re stubborn enough that you’re not gonna leave me alone so…”

“...You heard that part of the conversation?” And Eliot realizes— _ actually  _ realizes—then that Quinn definitely heard the part about letting him go wherever, when it was safe. Guess they were just going to sail right over that for now.

“You know there’s a little button, on the side of your phone? Turns down the in-call volume.” And Eliot doesn’t say anything, because pointing out that Quinn doesn’t have a phone, and by all rights,  _ shouldn’t  _ know that, even for as minor a detail as it is, can’t lead anywhere good.

It’s become increasingly obvious that there’s a lot going on in Quinn’s head that Eliot’s pretty sure he’s not even aware of. Basic, known-by-heart instincts and ingrained knowledge that the kid shouldn’t know, but that falls off his tongue, easy as anything. It’s almost as hard to hear as it is to watch him absent-mindedly rub at his ribs.

Eliot had almost punched the wall, when he’d found out the reason for that. Managed to hold it back though, because as much as Quinn trusted him, as much as Quinn stayed relaxed around him, even when Eliot got worked up, the last thing he wanted was to break that. Ever.

But he’d been  _ angry _ . So, so angry, he’d had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it in check—hard. A trick he hadn’t had to use in years.

There was so much gone, and just as many shadows, pitfalls, where it had all been, settled under Quinn’s skin and wrapped around his mind. And it just...wasn’t there any more. Because someone tried to play God.

If he ever got his hands on them, they’d wish there was one.

He shakes his head slightly, focusing back on the pan.

“..Yeah, sure, we can try. You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” And that gets him silence, and he can practically  _ feel  _ the glare aimed at the back of his head. “Come on Quinn, give me that at least.”

There’s a loud, put upon sign behind him, and he has to bite back against a smile. “Fine,  _ mom _ . If I end up being even more of a mess than previously assumed, I’ll let you know.”

“Don’t be a brat.” Is all Eliot says, even as he loads up a plate with french toast, honey, and sugar and pushes it over to Quinn.

“But it’s the only thing I’m good at.” Quinn snipes back, grinning broadly.

“You said it.”

* * *

 

_Quinn_

 

That first (second) trip to the brewpub isn’t...well. It’s not  _ great _ , by any stretch of the imagination.

He’s not comfortable from the second they walk out of the apartment. And it just gets worse as they make it down to the street. By the time they actually make it to the restaurant, Quinn’s about ready to either call it quits or just. Hide behind Eliot, for the rest of his natural life.

There’s just...a lot. Of people, of noise.

People who stare at him like they know everything going on inside his head and keeping what they find to themselves. Noise, crashing in and out, so loud after the quiet of the apartment, crowding out his thoughts and giving too many paths into a world that’s moved on without him that he doesn’t know where to focus.

Eliot wrapping an arm around his shoulders, about halfway there, is about all that keeps him from cracking at the seams.

Gets him through the door, at least.

Which is almost as bad, because the restaurant's open today, and the place is crowded, and it’s even louder in the close space, and there’s people watching them now, not just his mind making it look like they are. But Eliot just guides him to the back, pushing him through the door and closing it behind them, and while there’s still a dull roar behind it, the clarity of the noise is cut, and Quinn can breathe.

Quinn can breathe.

When Eliot’s sure Quinn’s not about to freak the fuck out (anymore than he already has), and has asked if he’s alright to the point that Quinn kind of wants to strangle him, he pushes him into a chair next to a very confused Hardison (who Quinn did not see there, whoops).

“If you need anything, either ask him, or get him to come find me, alright? I need to go see what’s been done to my kitchen.” And then he’s gone.

And Quinn’s kind of just left blinking. And so is Hardison.

“...You know. When I told him we missed him, I did not expect...that.”

And Quinn’s chest is still a little tight, but he manages a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “I told him we should come by. ‘Cause he wasn’t gonna ask.” He pulls a face. The trip may have sucked, but the way Eliot had tried to play off the way he lit up earlier with his ‘yeah, sure, we can try,” made it worth it.

“He being a martyr again?”

“That’s a thing with him, isn’t it?”

And Hardison just laughs and nods. “You have no idea.”

And Quinn can breathe.

* * *

He can’t manage it every day. And without fail, if Quinn’s not feeling up to it, they don’t go.

But he tries. He tries, because, for all that the trip is awful, and for all that people and noise and the too-big outside still mess with his head, Eliot has relaxed more in the last week than he had at any point before. And if he’d thought they’d reached a turning point after their talk, this one was even better.

More often than not, Quinn stays in the back, away from the hustle and bustle, generally hanging out with Hardison or Parker. Sometimes Eliot, when things seem to actually be running smoothly. Once with Amy, who was just as competent and awesome as advertised.

Hardison and Parker are...odd.

Generally, anyway. But also, just in how they react to him. 

Parker doesn’t talk to him at first. Just...watches him. From the ceiling. He about has a heart attack the first time he saw her, and Hardison laughing his ass off didn’t help.

After he sees her though, she at least keeps to the ground, mostly. It takes until the fourth trip for her to actually talk with him though. And he’s still not sure what the conversation was about—there’d been talk of locks and picks, and in general a lot of meaningful looks and intense stares. And while Quinn  _ didn’t  _ get what was going on, he kind of got the spirit of it, when Eliot walked back in, and Parker lit up. Whether he knew what she was asking or not, she was doing it for Eliot, and he could deal.

(She explains, the eighth trip out, that she’d been trying to ask if Eliot was as fiddly with him as he was with them—a busted lock with too many scrapes and worn down pieces to unlock. He still doesn’t quite understand the metaphor, but he thinks he gets the spirit of it, and gives her an enthusiastic  _ yes  _ because there is no other answer.)

After that confusing conversation though, she seems to be fine with him in her space (and, as he quickly learns, it is  _ her  _ space. Her and Hardison’s. They apparently live there, at least part time.) and tries to engage him in whatever conversation she’s having with Hardison, the tv, or no one at all.

She’s a bit odd, a bit hyper. But her laugh’s infectious and her smile’s crooked, and he’s never met anyone like her. She tries to make him feel included, even when their conversations turn into messes of just trying to explain to the other what they’re trying to say.

There are nights, when Eliot’s working late, that they end up on the couch, watching old heist movies, and Quinn’s starstruck, and Parker’s laughing at the weirdest times, and then she’ll explain why—apparently having absolutely none of the qualms Eliot had about coming clean as a thief, which is  _ fascinating _ —and he’ll have to laugh too.

She doesn’t call him out, when he needs things to be quiet. More often than not, she just...gets him a donut, or something similarly sugar-filled. And sits with him, quietly. Sure, she’s typically got something in her hands (rope, carabiners, locks), but she doesn’t say a word, and the soft rhythm of whatever she’s working on is better than the silence would’ve been anyway.

The first time Eliot had caught them like that, he’d gotten this weird look on his face. But then he’s smiled, and left them alone.

Hardison is...not quiet. (Usually.) He’s loud, excitable, prone to snipe fights with Eliot, and half-unspoken but lively conversations with Parker.

But Hardison also doesn’t need him to actively participate in order to be part of the conversation. It’s very clear, very quickly, that Hardison’s too intelligent for his own good, and his mind goes too fast to wait for others to catch up sometimes, and Quinn’s cool with being a sounding board that Hardison half-talks to, even with his face pressed to his monitor. And then when Hardison actually  _ does  _ focus on Quinn, it’s like there’s nothing else in the damn room, even if they’re playing a video game (he’s awful at them, and Eliot had made the most dramatic face of betrayal the first time he’d found them in front of the tv, controllers in hand. It was good. Almost good enough to hide the fond smile under it), or watching a movie (and now he knows what Eliot meant: Hardison is downright offended by all he hasn’t seen, and what Eliot’s been having him watch. There are rants. A lot of them).

It’s a lot. But he also figures that’s how Hardison just  _ is _ , and eventually, it’s as comforting as Parker’s distracted attention. Quinn doesn’t feel any pressure to be anything except what he is in that moment—which, more often than not, is a cussing kid, mad at some character on the screen, with Hardison laughing beside him.

It takes a little longer to find Hardison’s quiet side, too. And that’s more because it takes longer to  _ recognize  _ Hardison’s quiet side. He’s used to, at that point, Eliot’s easy silence that fills a room and dulls it down. To Parker’s quiet working, simple existence in space without intruding. Hardison’s is...warm, encompassing. He’s almost never actually quiet—computer keys clicking, grumbling to himself, stretching, moving—but the half-whispered conversations are all focused, caught in a close space. There’s no disappearing around Hardison, no fading into the dark like there is with Parker, or whiling away the time until he can breathe easier like there is with Eliot. There’s being, and being seen, and that being okay.

(He tries explaining it, at one point, to Eliot. And Eliot just smiles that stupid fond smile of his, and says he knows.)


	8. Chapter 8

_Quinn_

 

It’s been over two months (he thinks. Maybe closer to two and a half months? That first little while’s still fuzzy, looking back on it), since he showed up on Eliot’s doorstep, and a month and a half (ish. Again, fuzzy) before he works up the courage to ask for something he’s been thinking about since their talk.

He’s figured out by now that Eliot’s friend worked as...as a hitter—a word he got from Hardison, much to Eliot’s annoyance—and while he can’t quite imagine what that all entails, or why that’s what he fell into, or...or if this is a good idea, (it’s not. He knows it’s not. But if he pretends he doesn’t, he doesn’t have to deal with the consequences just yet), he still wants to ask.

He just. Can’t quite figure out  _ how _ .

He gets the chance to before he figures it out completely, and finds himself going for it before he’s made the decision to.

Eliot doesn’t sleep a lot. Quinn figured that out within the first week. He goes to bed late, and gets up early. And without fail, he always works that damn sandbag, every morning, before dawn.

(Quinn finds out, later, from Hardison, that Eliot actually prefers running, or going down to the gym across the street that has room for sparring or just straight up moving, and he feels that knowledge curl up like a pit in his stomach.)

It’s morning then, just after dawn. Quinn hadn’t been able to sleep since he’d been startled awake a little after midnight, one hand clamped over his mouth, and his back hurting from how tense he’d been. He couldn’t remember the dream—he never can, despite how often he had them (something he absolutely refused to let slip to Eliot, even if he’s about ninety percent certain Eliot knows anyway)—but there was still the smell of bleach and blood in his nose, the taste of bile in his throat, and a phantom sting under his ribs. It was a weird mix-up of the months before he’d run to Eliot, and...and his brain, trying to catch memories slipping farther and farther away. He thinks anyway. Hell if he knows.

Either way, he knows he looks like shit, but he’s fidgety, too wide awake, and he hears Eliot’s door opening, and he just goes with it.

Opens his door, doesn’t let Eliot apologize for waking him up (like he does every damn time, even though they both know he didn’t. Or at least, Quinn thinks they both know. Who the hell knows), just stares at him for a moment.

“Teach me how to fight.” And Eliot kind of just blinks at him. Eyes him up and down. Probably sees too much of the manic edge to his eyes that he’s trying to hide, or the twitch in his hands, even as they’re curled in his shirt (like a little kid and he hates it, but it’s the only thing that works).

He doesn’t say ‘okay’ or ‘yes’ or even nod. Instead he just says “Come on.” So Quinn goes. Follows Eliot into his room, to that damn sandbag.

“I’ll actually teach you shit when you calm down. But for now…” And Eliot spends the next two hours showing him how to throw a proper, simple punch. He can’t hit too hard with bare hands (on threat of Eliot yanking him back, which  _ ow _ ), and it takes too long for his liking for Eliot to actually okay his stance, his shoulders, his follow through. But he gets a punch, a cross, and an uppercut, or at least the basics of them. And Eliot helps him wrap his knuckles up, tells him not to get used to this, they’ll get him some actual gloves that fit, blah blah blah, and tells him to take it easy.

And then leaves him be.

They both know Quinn doesn’t take it easy in the slightest. They both know Eliot can hear the hard breathing that’s a little too close to sobs. They both know the whimpers of pain aren’t just mental, after another hour. But he can’t stop, because now he’s got an outlet, and he just wants to  _ move _ and the sandbag moves when he punches it, but not enough that each punch isn’t solid, racking through his arms and giving him a direct feedback loop that helps scrape him out and leaves him raw but lighter.

When Quinn comes back out, there’s nothing he can really do to hide his hands, so he doesn’t try.

Eliot’s in the kitchen, making breakfast, which looks to be...toast and eggs. Simple, something he could focus on without losing focus on Quinn, probably.

Eliot sees his hands. Sees the blood seeping through the tape. It’s not awful—patchy red, from where he’d rubbed his knuckles raw under the tape. He’s pretty sure only one or two’re split. Maybe.

“...Feel better?”

And Quinn nods, and Eliot doesn’t look happy, but he looks relieved, and that’s something.

“Awesome. Now you ain’t gonna be able to do shit until those heal up.” And Quinn has to argue that dammit, because this is the first time he’s felt  _ light  _ and he doesn’t want to stop just because of this, “No, not up for discussion. You’re learning this, you’re learning this  _ right _ .” And then Eliot glances over his shoulder, gaze too soft for Quinn to meet head on. “And hurting yourself for a break from your head isn’t a habit you’re gonna get into, if I can help it.” And that tone is too understanding, too knowing, for Quinn’s liking, so he just nods to end the conversation. Stays curled in on himself, but lets Eliot unwrap and clean his hands.

He has to grimace slightly at the scooby doo band-aids though, even if Eliot just shrugs and says “Parker.” Which, Quinn can see that.

* * *

He doesn’t know what he expects after that. Maybe some time set aside, after his hands are better (which takes an agonizing week, where he knows he’s moody and snappish, because Hardison and Parker call him out on it. And that just makes him feel like shit). Maybe taking him down to the gym Hardison told him Eliot tends to go to.

Maybe  _ anything _ . But Eliot...doesn’t do anything.

He takes Quinn to the brewpub, since Quinn can now make it there basically daily, they go home (and skipping right over _that_ for now, thank you very much), they maybe watch a movie, maybe talk, maybe don’t do much of anything. Wash, rinse, repeat.

And it’s driving Quinn up the damn wall.

He tries asking again. Which gets him another chance at the sandbag (with gloves this time, though Quinn has no idea where or when Eliot got them), but with Eliot watching this time, correcting his stance, pulling him back before he throws something wrong, showing him the basics of some boxing footwork.

And that’s it.

So he asks again.

Gets more punching. More footwork. More Eliot watching him with a hard look in his eyes, and a too quick hand pulling him back before he hurts himself.

And again.

More punching. Footwork. Shoulders tense and a permanent scowl.

He doesn’t ask again.

Not because he’s changed his mind. But because he knows a brick wall when he sees it.

He asks Hardison and Parker about it—about how Eliot won’t give him an actual answer about teaching him, but instead drags him through the small sessions he’d wheedled out of him like he’s chewing glass. About how he knows Eliot isn’t going to tell him no, but isn’t going to say yes either. And how he doesn’t know  _ why _ .

And Parker and Hardison look at each other, then look at him (it’s one of their weird synchronous things that they just  _ do  _ and Eliot’s of a same mind with him that it drives him up the damn wall). Parker shrugs, and Hardison just tells him, “You’ll have to actually ask him.”

Super helpful.

* * *

He lasts another week. Another week of half-assed lessons at the bag. Another week of Eliot getting tenser. Of Eliot getting shorter with him. It’s like they’re back to before they talked, and Quinn hates it.

“Teach me how to fight.” And Eliot’s already heading for where he keeps the tape and Quinn’s gloves and Quinn bristles. “No. Teach me how to  _ fight _ . Like  _ you. _ ” And that gets Eliot’s attention. Because while Quinn’s never actually seen Eliot fight, he knows, without a doubt, that for the stories Hardison and Parker give him (as censored as he’s sure they are) and for what Eliot’s let slip about his own past and his own work, he has to be damn good and he wants  _ that _ .

He wants that confidence Eliot has to his walk. He wants the surety that what he’s got to give is enough.

(He wants to stop feeling helpless when he wakes up with a scream in his throat and ash on his tongue.)

(And maybe, just maybe, the ghost is sneaking back up on him, but he’s resolutely ignoring that.)

It also gets the first straight answer he’s gotten out of him.

“No.”

And it’s Quinn’s turn to stop. Because he expected a fight. A ‘maybe’. A dodge.

Not a straight up no.

“What.” Is the only thing he can force out of his mouth. And it’s not a question, though it’s supposed to be. And Eliot just shakes his head.

“I said no.”

“Why the hell not?” And there’s the question. And the crack in his voice. ‘Cause that’s definitely needed right now.

And Eliot just looks at him, and Quinn feels his cheeks heat with shame and anger, because he  _ knows  _ that look. Eliot hasn’t thrown it his way, nor have Hardison and Parker.

But he knows that look.

He’s seen it on plenty of teacher’s faces. Plenty of cops. Plenty of adults.

He’s a kid. He doesn’t know any better. He doesn’t know  _ anything _ .

“Oh, fuck you!” Is about all he can spit of the tirade building in his head. But his throat is tight, and if he tries to throw out anymore, there’s a good chance he’s going to choke.

So, instead, he runs.

It’s not a...conscious decision. Not really. One moment he’s staring Eliot, and his hard eyes, and his set shoulders, arms crossed over his chest, like he’s just daring the world to try and move him, and the next, he’s watching blurry pavement disappear beneath his feet.

And the sense of deja vu and vertigo is almost enough to have him tripping and sprawling on the concrete. But he catches himself on his hands, feels the skin scrape on rough sidewalk, shoves himself back up and keeps running.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He rounds corners hard enough to almost go flying into the street. Only barely manages to miss running into people that appear out of nowhere.

He has no destination in mind, nothing he’s pushing himself towards.

Yet.

And  _ yet _ .

He almost laughs, when he recognizes the building he’s running towards.

(And if it’s wet in his throat, and it feels suspiciously like a scream is bubbling up under it, well.)

He can’t help it though. He doesn’t know where else to go, and with the shock of adrenaline rushing out of his system now that he’s actually engaged with something beyond the sidewalk beneath his feet, he needs to get off the street.

So he bolts inside. Ignores the startled looks of people sitting down to...lunch? Dinner? One of the two. (There’s a sick sense in his gut that he may have lost some time in there, if it really is dinner, and he doesn’t want to look back outside to see how far the sun has fallen.) Ignores them, and bolts to the back. Hardison and Parker look startled, a phone halfway to Hardison’s ear like he’d snapped his head to look over and left the phone where it was.

“...Yeah, E. we got ‘im, he’s fine. Well, no, not fine,” And Hardison winces when Quinn laughs at that. If gargling glass can be called a laugh. “No, just. Stay there, alright? I’ll call you back in a bit.” And then he’s hanging up, and Quinn finds himself boxed in on one side by Parker, and the other by Hardison. Neither are touching him, both eyeing him warily.

And all Quinn can really do is bite at his lip to keep back another laugh that’s definitely not a sob (when will he be done fucking  _ crying _ ) and crouch down to duck his head into his knees, wrapping his arms around his legs, almost like, if he can’t see them, then he definitely didn’t just run away from Eliot to Hardison and Parker. He definitely didn’t.

And maybe he’s shaking. Maybe he just wants to scream. And run again.

But he can’t. He just...can’t.

They don’t try to make him talk, at least.

It takes a long while before Quinn’s willing to look up again, and when he does, Hardison’s the only one in the room, crouched in front of him, just watching.

“...You back with us?”

Quinn snorts slightly, but nods, scrubbing at his face, almost stupidly relieved when his sleeve comes away dry.

“Alright. Let’s move to the couch, yeah? Parker went out to go yell at Eliot for whatever stupid shit he did. Wanna tell me all about it?”

And Quinn wants nothing more, in that exact moment, so he moves easily when Hardison hauls him up. Makes it to the couch under his own steam, which is an accomplishment, because he’s shaking again, and he doesn’t know if its from anger or exhaustion or both.

He barely waits for Hardison to sit down before he’s talking. Not yelling, so that’s a plus. “He just- How could he say fucking no? I just…” And to his horror, he has nothing to follow that. There was a rant on the tip of his tongue, the entire run here, and now that he can actually yell, and scream, and have someone listen he’s got...nothing.

Hardison seems to catch on that he’s floundering pretty quickly, takes pity on him.

“This about teaching you to fight still?”

Quinn nods, much as he can with his chin almost pressed to his chest.

“He say why?” And the question’s gentle, even if it has Quinn seeing red again, just remembering Eliot’s  _ look _ .

There’s a hand covering his, and Quinn takes a moment to notice his knuckles are hurting, from where they’re gripping the leg of his pants so tight they’ve turned white.

“I’m gonna guess he pulled a face, because that man can never actually just  _ say  _ what’s going on in that head of his, except in life or death situations.” It’s gentle, almost teasing. Commiserating at the very least.

And Quinn laughs, and this time it actually sounds like a laugh, even if it is thick. He nods and scrubs at his eyes. He’s not crying, but he can feel the stinging behind them at this point, now that things are calming down.

Quinn’s pretty sure he’s gonna say something after that, but he can hear the door open behind them, can hear heavy footsteps he’d recognize anywhere at this point, as well as a hissed “Eliot!” from what has to be Parker.

And Quinn’s prepared for yelling. Prepared for Eliot planting himself right in front of the couch, and getting his face, and tearing him a new one.

Because now that he can breathe again, he realizes exactly how fucking stupid what he’d done was.

He knew they were still looking for whoever...did this to him, even if they were all careful to keep quiet about it. He knew he was staying with Eliot not only because he didn’t want to be anywhere else, but because Eliot was one hell of a security system.

Running out into the city, with no guarantee he’d end up at the brewpub? Yeah. Even he can admit that was stupid.

But there’s no yelling.

Instead, there’s a moment of silence, and then he’s being hauled into a tight hug that knocks the air out of him.

He can vaguely hear Eliot muttering about “don’t fucking do that,” “what the hell Quinn,” and variations of that, from where his face is pressed to the top of Quinn’s head, and Quinn can’t even be mad that he’s being squished down to make that happen. Instead, he just clings back just as tightly.

He hears Parker and Hardison have a rushed, quiet conversation that he’s pretty sure is half eyebrows and exaggerated frowns with Eliot before he hears the door shut behind them and he knows the two are giving them space.

It takes a long couple of moments after that for Eliot to let him go and step back, eyeing him over worriedly. Quinn lets him look, even holds out his hands slightly, where they’re scraped red and tender, since Eliot’ll see them eventually. And Eliot sighs softly, scrubbing a hand over his face, except he kind of just leaves it there, like he’s trying not to break apart, and not looking is the only way to do it.

“I’m...I’m sorry…” His voice is cracked and scratchy, loud in the quiet room.

And Eliot just sighs again, and Quinn winces. Quinn ends up dropping back down on the couch, because it’s easier to look at Eliot’s stomach than to look at his face. He kind of wishes Eliot would sit next to him, so they could talk again. But he sees Eliot settle in, arms crossed over his chest, stance firm.

“Just. Please, don’t do that again.” It’s soft, almost pleading, and Quinn risks a glance up. Has to immediately look back down again from how wrecked and wrung out Eliot looks. He catches a glance outside, sees just how dark it’s gotten.

When he’d left, the sun had been high in the sky, and they’d just been about to eat lunch.

He’d been gone way too long, just running, and running, and wow, now he felt like shit.

“I’ll give you the phone, call Hardison or Parker, they’ll come pick you up. Or I’ll hang out in the hallway until they get to the apartment, and then I’ll leave. Just, please. Don’t run like that again, alright?” There’s no almost anymore. It’s definitely pleading, and all Quinn can do is nod, and mutter another  _ sorry  _ under his breath that he’s not sure Eliot hears.

“Just...just  _ why _ ?” And he shouldn’t be asking that right now, of all times. But it’s what started this, and he needs to  _ know _ .

And he can see Eliot tense, even if he’s not looking any higher than his chest right now. Can see where his grip goes white where he’s holding his arms.

“...Because you’re a kid.” And it’s what Quinn thought. And it’s almost enough for him to shut the conversation down again. Demand he leave. Give him space, like he promised not a minute ago. But...but there’s a catch, in Eliot’s voice.

He’s not lying, but he’s not telling the whole damn truth either.

Quinn looks up, and Eliot’s not looking at him anymore. He’s glaring out the window instead. 

“...And if I asked again, when I was eighteen?” Eliot glances at him out of the corners of his eyes, for no more than a blink.

“...No.”

“ _ Why? _ ” And Quinn knows his voice is hard from how Eliot winces and turns slightly away.

“Why do you want to know anyway? To keep hurting yourself? Or some misbegotten belief it’ll help you sleep at night?” And the words are harsh, and they crack through Quinn like a whip, and only the way Eliot won’t look at him, won’t even turn to face him all the way anymore, keeps Quinn from exploding back on him.

“Maybe it will-”

“Trust me, it doesn’t.” Too firm. Too knowing. That’s not a fight Quinn’s going to win, and not one he particularly wants to—the night after he’d split his knuckles on the bag hadn’t been restful, and he has no trouble believing Eliot on that. “...Trying to fill out the shape of a ghost again?” And the tone’s different. Softer, sympathetic and bitter. And it rankles at Quinn like nothing else.

“Maybe I just want to. Maybe  _ I  _ picked that before because that’s what  _ I _ was always going to pick. Maybe it’s something  _ I  _ want to do!” He’s yelling, and he’s not quite sure where the words are coming from, but they feel right, sitting in his mouth. They feel right, hitting the ground between them.

And Eliot just glares at him, all hard, unyielding edges.

“You don’t even know what any of it means! You’ve gotten stories from Hardison and Parker, I know you have, even if all of you don’t want to tell me about ‘em. I know you think you know what’s happened from what I’ve told you. You know  _ nothing _ about this.”

“Because you won’t tell me!”

“For damn good reason! This isn’t just a damn job! You start, you don’t back out. I told you I’ve done things I ain’t proud of—that barely even covers it Quinn! You think Hardison and Parker know all I’ve done, when they’ve told you the nice versions of the shit we’ve done? You really think they know how far I’ve gone, to keep them safe? And that’s just since we’ve been the good guys!” And Eliot’s on a tear now—he’s not yelling, but it’s pretty damn close, and all Quinn wants to do is sink into the couch.

“I’ve done things I can never take back, never make up for. There are people out there who would gladly see me dead and buried,  _ good  _ people who’d happily pull the trigger themselves, and I wouldn’t be able to blame them. That shit’ll bite at my heels every damn day until I die—which, until three years ago, I thought was going to be a lot sooner. And I got out easy. I have a chance of getting old and dying in my own home. Do you understand how  _ rare  _ that is? And I’m still not banking on it, with all that we do.”

“This life is running. Running from a hit, running from your past, running from one job to the next so the fire you set doesn’t catch you too.” The anger’s running out, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion Quinn can barely understand. “Running from a mark you pissed off, running and hiding and hoping they don’t catch your blind spots.” There’s a look towards the door that Quinn’s not even sure Eliot realizes he’s doing, and Quinn knows he’s talking about the two thieves that’re definitely eavesdropping somewhere around.

“This is a chance for you to do something different with your life, instead of just running from it!” It’s like that’s the last of the steam Eliot has, his shoulders slumping, even as he tries to draw himself up again, hold to the last.

And Quinn’s had enough. It’s not that he didn’t hear anything of what Eliot said, not by a long shot. But this…Quinn’s on his feet and in Eliot’s face in the next moment.

“It’s my life! They already took one chance from me. Don’t you dare try to take it from me too!” And Eliot stumbles slightly like he’s been hit, eyes wide and skin pale.

“I’m-I’m not-”

“You are. You are Eliot.” It’s a broken thing, what’s coming out of his mouth. But Quinn doesn’t have the energy to care anymore. He’s said his part. What Eliot does from there is up to him.

* * *

What Eliot does from there is get them home (and he’s too tired to even start working on that right now. The apartment’s home. That’s just what it is). 

Quinn steals the bathroom to take a shower, to try and scrub the gritty, tired feeling from his skin. It doesn’t work, but at least he’s pretty sure he looks a little better when he’s done, even if he still can’t look at the mirror.

He gets out, and finds Eliot sitting on the couch, phone in hand. He doesn’t look up, and Quinn almost misses what he says it’s so soft. “I’ll teach you.”

“Thank you.” It’s just as quiet as Eliot’s surrender, and he’s not entirely sure Eliot hears him. But it doesn’t matter. He really just wants to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_Quinn_

 

They don’t get back to normal immediately, not after that.

But they do get there. And when Eliot tells him to get changed into something he doesn’t mind sweating through, and to remember that he asked for this, Quinn doesn’t even complain. The gym is small, clearly relies on a regulars that want their own time and space. No one bats an eye and Eliot taking up most of the mats to show a jittery and jumpy Quinn how to put those punches to good use.

By the time they’re done, Quinn’s pretty sure his muscles are jelly, but he’s got a grin big enough to split his face, and even Eliot’s looking more relaxed than he has in over a week now.

So that becomes a thing.

(Eliot promises him that, though they’re going to go slow, he is going to put his all into it. Give Quinn enough to work with that, when he makes his choice, he’ll be able to do so confidently. And Quinn grumbles about having to be patient, but Eliot’s not fooled, and just ruffles his hair until Quinn tries to swat at him, missing completely. Someday he won’t, and that’s enough for now.)

And they go back to arguing about movies. And hanging out at the brewpub. And laughing with Hardison and pulling pranks with Parker. And existing in each other’s space like they never stopped.

* * *

He still wakes up some mornings (more mornings than he’ll ever admit) with a scream in his throat and pressure on his spine and on his neck as phantom pains sear across his skin.

He still can’t look in the mirror.

Still feels his throat close up when he catches himself rubbing at the spot just under his ribs.

But he’s getting more sleep, overall.

He’s figuring out a rhythm with the brewpub. With Eliot.

Figuring out where he fits and how, and finding that there might just be a Quinn-shaped space somewhere in there. A  _ now  _ Quinn shaped space.

* * *

It occurs to him, while watching Parker excitedly put up the tackiest turkey-themed wreath (which, those exist, apparently) he’s ever seen in the brewpub, that he has no idea what the date is.

He’s pretty sure he asked Eliot at some point, a long while back. Stored the answer away and let the calender slide over him without ever actually engaging with it. Why would he? He wasn’t in school anymore (something he was determinedly Not Bringing Up, lest they all realize he was sixteen and not in school and get it in their heads to fix that), his days were a blend of the same, comforting routine now. There was literally no reason for him to keep an eye on the date.

(And, on his really bad days, as quickly as those had become a rare occurrence, he couldn't stand to think about the month, let alone the year, or he’d end up face down in a wastebasket, with Eliot leaning over him rubbing his back. And the less he had of that the better.)

Which he’s realizing may have been a bit of a mistake since apparently tomorrow was Thanksgiving and he’d just. Completely missed that.

Eliot hadn’t even said anything, despite it being obvious that the brewpub had been preparing for it. The stupid (...and kind of cute) wreathe Parker was hanging up was only the most recent of the decorations. In Quinn’s defense, they hadn’t been down to the brewpub in three days, due to a couple bad days on Quinn’s part, and Eliot spending most of yesterday on the phone, ordering supplies. It hadn’t even occurred to Quinn to ask about what the supplies were for.

Soon enough though, he doesn’t have anymore time to try and figure out what he’s missing, because Eliot conscripts him into the kitchen (after they take a moment to see if he can handle the noise and the people and wow, it’s overwhelming, but it’s not all consuming like it would have been a few weeks ago) to help Amy with whatever she needs.

Apparently, the day of Thanksgiving, the brewpub turns into a soup kitchen, for any and all who want to come by. Completely free. And then, that night, when everything’s closed up, the staff that haven’t left to be with family, stick around and have their own dinner.

It sounds nice, honestly.

He doesn’t get much of a chance to think about it too much, focusing on whatever task Amy gives him, and the rest of the day passes in a blur of warm spice, oven timers, and comfortable chatter.

Eliot doesn’t ask him to help with things the next day, immediately making the connection between “restaurant full of strangers” and “anxiety like whoa”. Instead, him and Amy are more or less banished to the back. Not that Amy really  _ stays  _ there, saying it’s absolutely ridiculous, they do this every time, telling her to take a break since she did so much in the days leading up to everything. Without fail though, she’s shortly back with Quinn and he just laughs at her, and they watch a lot of cheesy action movies. He finds his tastes in movies aligns a lot better with hers than with Hardison’s or Eliot’s (not that he’d ever tell Eliot that), and it’s honestly just a fun, relaxed afternoon.

Things don’t really get...weird, until later. The brewpub’s closed up late, with everyone, including Amy and Quinn this time, doing their best to clean up the front as quickly as possible.

Going back into the kitchen shows all the leftovers from today, plus things made and left to stew or cook during the day, all spread out along whatever surface was big enough to hold them all. Quinn ends up with a plate full of food, perched on a counter (pointedly ignoring Eliot’s glare because hey, other people are doing it too), talking with Amy and a guy he’d met a couple weeks ago, but for the life of him, he can’t remember his name. He’s got a nice smile though and he doesn’t look offended that Quinn’s cool with just listening to most of the conversation instead of actually participating.

Eliot’s making rounds through the kitchen, stopping off with everyone who stuck around, and Quinn can’t hear him over the white-noise of everyone talking at the same time, but he looks happy, and everyone’s smiling, and the big kitchen feels close and homey, and even if he doesn’t have a lot to compare it with, he thinks this is how a holiday is supposed to feel.

“-not a thing growing up here, you know? Mom wanted to try, but Dad just wasn’t into it. We got two years, and then kind of just let it fade away.” Amy’s saying to his right, and to his left the man—Toby! That was it!—is nodding along.

“What about you, Quinn? Your family ever do anything special for Thanksgiving?” Quinn blinks, because he doesn’t remember being part of this conversation. Has to catch himself from spitting out an answer that he’s pretty sure would just make people uncomfortable, and instead just shrugs, tries to pull any answer up out of the blue.

“...Ma liked it. Spent the day as an excuse to bake everything she could find.” He smiles, even as he realizes he’s not lying like he planned. But it doesn’t matter—these people don’t know him that well, don’t have any history to any of this, except as a nice story of his mom. And that’s...that’s a relief, and that’s enough to keep him talking. “Every year, she’d try something new, you know? And the first try never worked. Flour all over the kitchen, something burnt in the oven, a fresh baked pan ending up on the floor.” He laughs, is happy as hell when Amy and Toby smile along with him, as if they can just imagine. “By that night though, she’d have enough to cover the table. I think I was eight before I realized there was supposed to be a turkey there too.” And that gets an actual laugh out of Toby.

All he can do is smile. These people don’t know where he came from, or what’s going on, but he has no doubt they can picture his mom—or at least, what they might imagine she looked like—just as easily as he can, and something warm settles in his chest.

The moment dissipates, and Amy and Toby are drawn away by others (though Amy does toss a look his way, silently checking that he’s okay to be alone for a bit, which he waves off with a smile), but the warmth settles in close.

He’s okay with people watching for a little bit, while he picks at his plate, but he can’t say he’s not relieved when Hardison leans on the counter besides him. All he’s got is a handful of cookies that Quinn’s pretty sure Eliot told him specifically to leave alone (why though, he has no idea).

“Heard you talking to Toby and Amy.” Hardison starts, and Quinn raises an eyebrow at him. Hardison just shrugs, smiles. “Nice to hear you talking like that, is all. This holiday stuff isn’t for everyone—hell, Eliot’s not a huge fan of it still, despite all this—but that’s the first time I’ve heard you talk about your family.” And Quinn winces slightly, has to duck his head.

Has he really avoided talking about it that well? He knew he hadn’t been actively thinking about his past—too tangled in his future while he was just trying to deal with the  _ now _ —but, looking back, he...can’t remember anything.

“It’s all good, Quinn. It’s a tangle, yeah? Point was, you looked happy. That was all.” He looks up, sees Hardison smiling that smile of his, the lopsided one that reads too honest to be anything but genuine.

And something inside Quinn bends a little.

“No one talked about her. When she was gone. Most of her family was already gone too. The old man wouldn’t even say her name. And this...this far gone?” He smiles, bitter and sad he knows, but Hardison just looks on with understanding in his eyes, “I’m probably the only one that bothered to remember her.”

Hardison hums, and gently bumps their shoulders together.

“Toby and Amy will now. And so will I. Eliot and Parker would, if you told them. She doesn’t have to be just a memory for you, if you don’t want her to, alright?” And there’s something to his tone, something heavy, that makes Quinn look up enough to meet his eyes.

And Hardison smiles again, but this time it’s soft and sad, and doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’ve told you about my Nana, right?” Quinn nods quickly. He loves it when Hardison talks about his Nana—loves imagining the home he describes and all the siblings he names, even if the idea of keeping track of everything himself sounds like way too much.

“I didn’t get to her until I was eleven. And don’t get me wrong, I love her to death. She made me who I am, and she’ll always be a mom to me. But, everything before it? That doesn’t just...go away. I don’t remember a whole lot, before I ended up in the system. Just bits and pieces, half of which I’m pretty sure I made up. But it doesn’t matter, you know? Because what I remember is what I have left, and what I remember is warm, and loving, a bright smile and curly hair that I could never quite catch.” He smiles again, and this time it’s stronger. “That doesn’t go away. Even if I never shared it with anyone else, even though I went and built a whole new family, all by myself, I remember it, so there’s still some living today. Same with your mom, alright?”

And even though Quinn can see what Hardison’s doing, appreciates the hell out of it, the story hits home too, just on its own.

He can see, clearly, his mom dancing around the house while she cleaned, in those ridiculous oversized overalls. Can see her in the kitchen, glaring at the oven as it belched out smoke again. Can see her outside, chasing him through the sprinklers.

His past is tangled up in his future, in something he’s still building, still trying to understand. But just because one’s clouded and muddy, doesn’t mean the other has to be.

* * *

The rest of the night is mellow and easy, all revelations aside. People start clearing out around midnight, and eventually, its just him, Hardison, Parker, and Eliot. They’re all more or less trying to clean things up, and Hardison and Eliot have been trying to outdo each other with family holiday stories for the last hour, and Parker’s just rolling her eyes and Quinn’s trying not to laugh, and all he can think is this is how a family is supposed to feel. And he’s missed it so, so badly.


	10. Chapter 10

_Quinn_

 

There’s a weird mood in the brewpub, and in the apartment, the week after Thanksgiving. It takes Quinn about two days to figure it out, and at that point, there’s not much he can do besides wait and see what happens.

He’s pretty sure Eliot thinks he’s being sneaky. But the man spends more time attached to his phone than Quinn’s ever seen, and Hardison can’t get off his laptop for anything, and Parker seems dedicated to distracting him. She tries really hard, he’ll give her that. But she’s not there in the apartment, where Quinn can watch Eliot startle each time his phone buzzes. When he can hear Eliot pacing long after he said he was going to bed. When he can hear him arguing on the phone when people with no special ringtones call, saying things about favors and deals and promises.

She’s not there when Eliot tells him he can either stay at the brewpub with Hardison and Parker for a little while, or they can stay here, it’s up to him. She’s not there to see the flinty set to his eyes that Quinn’s never seen before, and the way he’s bristling but trying to hide it.

But Quinn is. Quinn sees everything Eliot’s trying to hide, and feels...something, in his chest. He doesn’t know if it’s hope, or dread, or some bastard cousin of the two.

Quinn picks the apartment, and within the hour, the other two are there with overnight bags over their shoulders. And they’re trying for happy, trying for distracting. But Parker’s got a focus to her, a twist to her smile, that sends chills up Quinn’s spine, and Hardison’s so still, too still, but it’s not reading like panic and Quinn really doesn’t want to read it as anger, but that’s all there is.

He may hide in his room for a good couple of hours. The other two seem to get that he needs the space and leaves him be.

He can hear them through the door, poking through the kitchen, flicking through channels on the tv.

But he can’t hear Eliot, and that’s what drives him from his room pretty quickly, because without the solid rhythm of Eliot in the apartment, it just sounds hollow, and the closer he is to whatever sound  _ is  _ in the apartment, the easier it’ll be to ignore it.

“...You gonna tell me what all this is about, or do I get to guess and let my imagination run wild?” He asks, after a long couple of awkward hours where they’d eventually just flipped on the tv and left it at the Star Wars marathon that had been playing.

“You already figured it out, so I don’t think it counts as your imagination.” Hardison responds after a moment, grimacing slightly.

Parker nods, looking as unhappy as he’s ever seen her. “Eliot wouldn’t let us go with. Said he’d call in some other kind of help instead.”

“Bastard can’t ever do anything by halves, has to jump in all by himself and fix everything. Damn martyr.” Hardison mutters, glaring out the window.

Quinn has to shift his understanding of what’s going here, with all of that. It had definitely read like he’d been dumped on these two so they could babysit while Eliot went...wherever he was going (Quinn had a pretty damn good idea, but thinking about it had a 50/50 chance of making him feel sick again. So.). Instead, it looks like they’re watching him as much as he’s watching them, and none of them are happy about it.

Fantastic.

* * *

Eliot’s gone for five days.

By day three, Hardison’s pissed but working himself through it. He’s almost back to normal by the end of the day, and they’re all pretending he hasn’t been holding conversations with himself about how dumbass hitters need to be hit over the head to stay put.

By day four, Parker seems to have worked through things herself, but quietly, which Quinn finds a touch more unsettling than Hardison’s grumbling.

He himself is still...not angry, but certainly not okay either. He doesn’t know.

He has a vague idea what Eliot’s doing, but it exists in this weird break in his thoughts.

He knows there’s a good chance people have been looking for him this entire time. Knows full well during his sprint through the city before, he could’ve been scooped up, taken back a room that smelled like bleach and left his head full of haze and pain. Knows that they’ve been looking for whoever it was this entire time, even if they tried to keep him out of it.

But it’s all been...outside. Separate. He was safe in the apartment. In the brewpub.

All his actual memories of the place were clouded over and refused to regain clarity no matter how many times he ran through them. Hell, even his nightmares were so garbled with the past and the present and some vague amalgamation of the future that all he usually remembered of them were smells and various hurts. No faces. No concrete areas. He couldn’t even tell you what colors the walls were.

Everything about his run through hell to get to Eliot’s seems like this weird half-remembered dream, and the time before it is even more scattered. It’s not quite the gaping maw in his memory that his future is, but it’s pretty damn close. Meaning he’s been doing his best to just ignore it exists completely.

So being confronted with the fact that Eliot is in fact going and dealing with this, with this nonentity suddenly made real and tangible and  _ dangerous _ …

Nope, Quinn knows exactly how he’s doing, and it’s awful, and maybe he ends up curled up in the corner of the couch, resolutely pretending that Parker sitting on the arm, with a hand on his shoulder, and Hardison sitting by his feet with his arm stretched over the back of the couch, aren’t the only things keeping him from flying apart at the edges.

* * *

He’s asleep when Eliot gets in. Later, later he’ll be pissed about that.

But for right now, it takes him a moment to piece a few things together. He’s still on the couch, is the first thing he figures out, which is why the sounds around him are all loud and clear.

The second thing is that there is indeed a fourth person in the apartment. He can hear the low rumble of Eliot’s voice as he tries to be quiet, coming from the kitchen, where there’s the familiar sounds of something sizzling in the pan, and the coffee machine gurgling.

Quinn peeks over the back of the couch, sees Parker and Hardison perched at the breakfast bar, and Eliot himself, fiddling with the stove. Like he hasn’t been gone for five days doing god only knows what. Like they haven’t all been worried sick because the bastard didn’t take his comms (Hardison explained that to Quinn at length on the second day).

The third thing is what he’s actually saying.

“-ance took ‘em in. Had enough evidence for human experimentation—fucking, videos, notes, recordings and-and…” he trails off for a moment, before shaking his head and going back to focusing on the pan. “They got enough before they could burn it all.” And he glances over, and Quinn swears, one days he’s gonna wake up and surprise Eliot, instead of dealing with this weird sixth sense Eliot seems to have.

“Morning kid.”

Quinn glares. Really. That’s what he’s going with.

Eliot winces slightly at his expression, then winces again when he sees it mirrored on Hardison and Parker’s faces.

“...Alright, alright. I’m...well, no, I’m not sorry I took off. I am sorry I took off  _ like that _ though. We just...we had to move quick, alright? And that seemed like the best course of action. And I couldn’t take you two, there was nothing you two could do there, and someone needed to watch Quinn—Not like a babysitter, don’t start Quinn, we had to be sure we got all of them, alright?” Its a rush, and Quinn, now that he’s actually looking, can see the strain around Eliot’s eyes, the way he’s favoring his left leg, and the tense set to his mouth.

It doesn’t make things better, but it does seem to clear the air.

Hardison grumbles about hitters that think they’re lone-wolf Rambo types, and Parker just rolls her eyes and grins. “You promised french toast.” And it seems like all is forgiven, for her at least.

By the time they’ve all eaten (Quinn had slowly migrated from the couch, the closer they got to the food being done. He can be mad at Eliot all he wants, but he’d stab someone for that french toast, so.) things seem to have settled down. Parker and Hardison each give him a hug goodbye, and promise to call Eliot later, before they’re packing up and leaving.

And the look Eliot shoots after them is...well, honestly, it’s pathetic. And Quinn knows it just because he’s so goddamn tired that he can’t hide like he normally does, can’t reign himself in right now.

“So how pathetic do you think you’d have to be for them to actually notice you pining over here?”

Eliot startles, blinking at him, before he’s scowling, “Say another word…”

“And I’ll regret it, blah blah blah, you haven’t scared me since the first week, get over it and figure it out.” It works like a charm. Eliot’s trying not to laugh, having to drag a hand down his face to hide his smile, and Quinn feels something settle in his chest. Eliot’s home. Eliot’s fine. And from the sound of things, the bogeyman he’s been resolutely ignoring is well and truly gone.

“Whatever, kid. I’m gonna go take a shower. Maybe sleep. What do you want for dinner?” There was no maybe about that sleep idea then, if he was talking about dinner. Quinn just rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion.

“Figure it out later. Go to bed before you collapse.” And Eliot doesn’t hide his laugh then, nor the grateful look he shoots Quinn’s way. On his way past, he ropes Quinn into a one-armed hug that’s a little too hard and a little too tight, but otherwise doesn’t say a word.

Until he’s halfway down the hall anyway. “Mind cleaning up the kitchen?” And then the bathroom door’s shutting.

“In your dreams!” Quinn calls back, even as he grins and starts gathering up the plates.

* * *

There’s no conversation about Quinn leaving, after that.

Well, no, that’s not exactly true.

One morning, Eliot drops a plate in front of him, looks at him hard, like he’s steeling himself up for something.

Quinn grabs the plate (he’s gonna have to work on Eliot’s go-to bribe plate being french toast. Eventually. But he ain’t sick of it yet, so not today), “Any chance we can pick up some different sheets for my room? Navy’s nice and all, but fucking boring.”

And Eliot blinks. Blinks again. Then he’s laughing and the set around his eyes loses it’s strain.

“Watch your mouth, ya brat.”

“Fuck you.” Quinn says around a mouthful of bacon, which just makes Eliot laugh harder.

* * *

It’s not that nothing’s changed.

Everything has.

Hardison’s no longer permanently glued to his laptop when Quinn’s around, which Quinn had just...thought was Hardison’s natural state. And to some extent, it definitely is. But there’s more wild movement, more laughter, more willingness to put a project on hold to come whip him at whatever latest game Hardison got.

Parker’s...well, Parker’s Parker. He’s sure, given enough time, he’ll be able to suss out the differences in her behaviour, between now and the previous weeks, but honestly? Having someone be steady throughout this entire thing is a godsend.

And Eliot...Eliot trains him. Eliot bickers with him. Eliot grumbles about his language and his movie choices (all Hardison and Amy’s faults) and talks with him and exists in his space, but there’s no longer this tense shadow over his shoulders. He doesn’t look at Quinn and have to hide the hurt. He’s just...Eliot. And Quinn’s finally getting to see him, clearly. Finally getting to carve out a space in his apartment for himself, without the pall of the chance of him leaving (even if they’d never actually spoken about it, he remembers that phone call loud and clear).

Eliot gripes about Quinn leaving bath towels on the floor. Quinn bitches about Eliot’s impossible morning run schedule (it’s hell. Even more so since he seems intent on dragging Quinn along, saying shit like “you asked for this” and “said I’d train ya, didn’t I?” and Quinn just wants to punch that smug smile off his face). Hardison and Parker come by more and more now that they’re all not tied to whatever invisible tether had kept them rooted to the spot.

The apartment’s almost never really quiet, someone always bickering or laughing or getting shooed out of the kitchen or arguing about what classifies as a hobby or a good movie.

The further into December they get, the louder things get. Not just sound wise either. Oh no. Apparently, Eliot had given Parker permission to decorate his apartment. Quinn was not present for that conversation, but he can just imagine Hardison’s warning motions and exaggerated faces behind an excited Parker while Eliot just grumbles.

It’s way too clear a picture.

Regardless, one morning, mid-December, he wakes up, and the apartment is...well. Hallmark would be jealous. There’s pine boughs all along the tops of the walls, with the occasional gaudy mismatched wreath breaking it up. There’s a miniature town all decked out in christmas gear in the middle of the coffee table, surrounded...by a train apparently. A bright red and green table cloth has taken over the dining table, and all the visible hand towels have been replaced with either Santa- or snowman-themed ones. Bright red and gold candles are on every surface.

And then there’s the tree. The monster of a pine that Quinn’s not...actually sure how they got through the door.

Hardison’s currently holding a golden-lion looking ornament out of Parker’s reach, while Parker tries to climb  _ him  _ like a tree, and Eliot’s laughing too hard to be much help in pulling her away.

They’re all too distracted to notice Quinn coming up behind Hardison, except Parker, who winks at him, and redoubles her efforts at getting the lion. Hardison suitably distracted, Quinn grabs it and hangs it dead center on the tree, to Parker’s cheers and Hardison and Eliot’s exaggerated groans.

“You see what you’ve done? You’ve encouraged her. There isn’t even gonna be a tree under here when she’s done.” Hardison’s trying to sound put out, truly, legitimately put out, but he grinning too hard and Eliot’s not even resisting at this point, his own smile too soft to even try, and Parker’s cackling while digging through a truly impressive number of boxes labeled ‘decorations’.

“I like him. We’re keeping him.” Parker declares, without looking away from where she’s pulling out what looks like a...necklace? With an impressively sized blue rock dangling from it.

Hardison grins and goes to help, while Eliot...Eliot just looks at him, smiles that soft smile again.

“Looks like you’re stuck with us, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always loved and appreciated ^^
> 
> Also, if you feel a tag was missed, or a better warning needs to be added, please feel free to let me know!
> 
> (and come say hi over on [tumblr](https://distinctivelibrarians.tumblr.com))

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [On the Bright Side of Being Hell Bent [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410158) by [BabylonsFall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall), [IndigoNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight)




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